Archive of Our Own ^beta

FADE IN:

Click. Sputtering, and then a finalized click.

Shuffling, feedback.

RYNNE

(im so tired of your shit)

It’s working now, Tom. God, Do you really have to play mechanic?

DETECTIVE

If it won’t stop freaking out, then I wouldn’t think your devices are haunted, Lieutenant.

RYNNE

Excuse me, these are the–

DETECTIVE

One question.

Why did you hire Will?

RYNNE

Oh, don’t start this again.

DETECTIVE

No, no. It’s just a simple question, Lieutenant.

Why did you?

RYNNE

Because–

DETECTIVE

(quick, cutting RYNNE off)

Couldn’t you move him to the library, or anything else? It’s more peaceful there, and besides, he wouldn’t have to bump into me everytime we’re in the halls.

RYNNE

You asked for 6 people to work alongside you, but you didn’t specify which, Tom.

You got what you wanted, and you don’t get upset.

DETECTIVE

Seriously?

(loud groan)

Fine. Fine, you win.

RYNNE

Good. Good, you’ll do well here.

DETECTIVE

And what? Make the tapes me?

RYNNE

(confused)

What are you implying?

DETECTIVE

Let’s face it, Lieutenant. One day, these recorders will stop working, and I’m not here, you’ll come to know that the tapes are alive.

Sooner or later, you’ll know my words ring true.

RYNNE

Alright, Wells. Keep dreaming.

At Rynne’s “Keep dreaming”, the audio fizzles for a bit. Something important.

RYNNE (CONT’D)

I assure you, there’s no such thing as magnetic tape clones–and even if they were, well… magnetic tape isn’t that good of a material, no?

DETECTIVE

You say that, but it… it could.

RYNNE rubs their temples. from the looks of it, this isn’t the first time it’s had this conversation with TOM.

RYNNE

By the time you’ll figure that out–you’ll be dead in 2 years time.

Beat. TOM is seen contemplating about something.

RYNNE

(light concern)

Just… don’t… think about it, alright?

Bad for your mind. Focus on work for now.

RYNNE steps off, and out of TOM’s office. Door shuts.

TOM eyes the recorder besides him. Lens blur.

DETECTIVE

I'm keeping an eye on you.

Only the whirring responds.

Lens blur fades.

With a shaken breath, TOM brings out CASE #09870-BGE.

DETECTIVE

Log CASE #09870-BGE begin.

 

Yvette Swan - the mines near Sinner’s Lake.

 

DETECTIVE (CASE)

I could’ve sworn I heard him on that day.

 

Mind you, I won’t spare you all of the details on the date, as my memory is very faint these days, so I may not recall everything like landmarks on a map, but I can tell you what I know, and what I don’t. Most people don’t, anyways.

For a bit of background, Sinner’s Lake is what remains of the mining coal town sector of Brimstone Peaks. I remember being one of the hauliers around that part of the block before it… well, you know the rest of the story. One day–on a full moon–a water leak found its way onto one of the pipes in the caving system, and after a little bit of tension, it busted and all the water rushed out and flooded the streets. There was so much. So much damage. Some of us survived the casuality that occured, but most of us? Most of us drowned. Most of us were beyond saving. Even Jerry. Jerry Firmings. He was the worst out of all of us.

 

Jerry Firmings was my good friend. We were really good co-workers at the time of the incident; having all the tools I needed, lending a hand as I carried the cargo boxes onto the boat, and guiding me away from oncoming dangers in the tunnels. I knew I could trust him, and I’m sure he knew that too. I wished I could’ve warned him over the sound of rushing waters back there, in the tunnels, but I knew it was too loud to hear, too quick to even rescue him. I know. I was a fool to even go back in there. The incident had fractured my arm and a leg, and dealt me a ton of blunt head trauma, but I recovered. I recovered, but it wasn’t the same. No, not the same without Jerry.

 

I haven’t eaten, drank, nor did anything to sustain myself. I did everything to try and stay alive. To not succumb to whatever Jerry did to. My friends were concerned, perhaps even horrified at my gaunt appearance–provoking a pale vulture waiting for me to fall into the maws of death Herself.

 

I chuckled at the words. The vultures were there out for blood, from within darkness, and I knew, I jus’ knew that just an ounce of fate in their beaks, could jus’ about kill me from a few kilometers away. They could just peck at my bones, at my decaying, rotting corpse if they had the chance to. Hah, a victor that wasn’t theirs to begin with. Tragic that they’re scavengers and not hunters or hunted. Tragic, tragic, tragic. But you’re not here for me to talk about birds of prey or bugs, aren’t you?

The static rises.

You’re here because you want to know what happened to Jerry. What happened to the rest of him.

 

Fine.

 

It’s no secret that you’ll hear the voices of long-overdue ghosts near the shores of Sinner’s Lake. They say the moon is blood-red and full among the night sky, and the waters are stained with a ugly, blooming crimson colour. Bones lay around the weathered conditions of wood planks and water-damaged tracks, and dusty minecarts. It is only now that I realize that the signs of life; whether animal or people, are scarce ‘round the area. It is only now that there is nothing to retain from this, only the presence of cobwebs and spiders weaving. A dead zone. A dead end.

 

It’s sad, really.

 

Well, despite the ruins of what used to be coal mines–a sad sight–I chose to take in the landmarks around the area for a bit; scavenging the rundown debris left over from the giant flood, maybe find a couple ancient items from back then–perhaps start a collection or selling them to other person for a small business; making a couple terra aurums or more, y’know? Some people–curators and collectors–still like old ancient stuff, hell, they even have sort of a museum in their own house! It’s weird, but wicked.

 

I didn’t collect a lot of valuable, ancient artefacts near Sinner’s Lake, though. There wasn’t much to find since the place was mostly deserted and devoid of life, and since most of the useful items that the coal town had to offer were just wasted away into cold and hard debris. ‘Whatever’, I thought to myself, ‘This is all I can get, and well, I can’t spend another hour looking around for stuff since it’s getting dark’. I look up, confirming my thoughts as I see that the sun is setting.

 

Huh.

 

I was right.

 

It must be time to head back to the town.

 

But before taking the artefacts in my paws; putting ‘em in my messenger satchel, and heading back, I hear a couple of gruff footsteps from behind me, and I turn around to see who it is, …only to gasp at the person who was there in front of me.

 

It was… no, what looked like him.

 

“Jerry?” I whispered at the man; his fur dishevelled, his stupor gaunt almost like he hadn’t eaten in days, his eyes heavy, and grim everywhere on him. “Jerry, is that you?” I looked at his clothes; the same uniform he had worn when he died, the same caving gear everywhere–rusted and put to shame in the in-betweens. I couldn’t speak as I jus’ stared at Jerry.

 

Then, with a once familiar, now unfamiliar laugh, he spoke.

 

“I’m not him.” I couldn’t tell you how much I wanted to cry. I really did want to cry. But I didn’t.

 

I ran. I ran as he came forward; approaching me.

 

I didn’t look back.

 

I don’t know if he’s still out there. He must be. Waiting for me. I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again.

 

I don’t know if he’ll know it’s me.

 

A shuddering breath as TOM takes in the Case.

DETECTIVE

I asked Magpie to contact and to try and talk to Yvette about the case, but no matter how she tried to dial her up, the phone went to voice-mail many times. Upon contacting her in person, Maucie, on the other hand, found a couple of newspapers detailing the teachings of “how to love again”, and a pile of blank film reels.

 

As for the case itself, I do believe that Ms. Swan perhaps experienced a mere delusion as a result of her head injury, and this story is mostly fabrication. Sinner’s Lake ghosts are just rumours anyways.

Static swells. Für Elise starts playing.

DETECTIVE

Ugh, my head hurts. I may need to ask Francis where the ibuprofen is.

I’ll be right back.

As TOM leaves, the tape recorder clicks on, repeating the same sentence again and again; until it spools out: …he’s still out there.

FADE OUT.

FADE IN:

DETECTIVE

Log CASE #18905-HNB begin.

Simon Mannings - a series of strange happenings on the left wing of the Northern Ends, Winterburg.

DETECTIVE (CASE)

Before this whole thing started, I used to live farther east of your town, Brimstone Peaks, in a small town named Winterburg, located on the doorstep of the Northern Ends. Over there, our town is in sorta a tundra; typically covered in a chilly blanket of snow, and rarely thawing with new life. You could say that we were ghosts—almost binded to a haunted town—everywhere, as far as the eye could see, were almost shrouded in a heavy fog, making our small townsfolk barely visible to the outside world. Now, I’ve never thought about what could’ve been out there, Detective. No. I’ve always thought that the fog would protect us from whatever unsuspecting danger that was out there, lurking. I thought that it was safe here. That under the fog, was home.

 

I was too naive to realize that, maybe, the fog wasn’t home. No, I realize now that the fog was the danger. That it was the warning.

 

I found the damn thing perched out my doorstep of my isolated cabin, right in the middle of a snow-filled clearing. I should’ve known the danger back then, the unlabelled package with no name, no address, no nothing. There wasn’t even a person nearby, asking me to sign their cheques for ordering their stuff. Only the package. I found it unnerving that the box sat alone–snow already piling among the top–out in the below freezing cold. Despite my mind screaming at me not to touch, my curiosity compelled me to bring it in; maybe see what it was in the package itself.

 

So as I gathered a pair of scissors, swiftly pierced through the tape; sliding it from the top to bottom, and then pushed away the flaps, I found a peculiar snow-globe resting on top of piles upon piles of crinkle paper shreds. What I found strange was that it seemed to showcase a mini-model of my cabin inside of the glass display. I felt my stomach drop. It looked… almost identical–like a dobbelganger committing identity theft–a perfect match to the original, and nobody would suspect a thing.

 

As far as I know, I never even met my parents, my predecessors, or anyone for that matter in this town so the implication of the near-perfect model of my cabin and the fact that the package was specifically mailed to me would imply that someone out there, in town or outside of town knew me. That someone stalked every movement, every moment, everything that I lived through, and kept track of it. As much as I must say that was nice of them to do, it kinda freaked me out. Someone out knew my entire life without me ever knowing them.

 

Why would they do this?

 

Who knows.

As I lifted the snow-globe into my paws, I felt an awfully frigid bitterness as if I was touching snow; numbing my pads as I held it. A mystifying thought occurred to me, though. I didn’t even know why I felt this way–actually, scratch that, I don’t know if it was even me thinking this, but I felt a desire to disappear. What would it be like to not exist? What if I was nothing?

 

Static rises. Tom’s voice begins to echo.

It’ll be nice to disappear, right? Peace and calm, and nobody to bother you.

 

Nobody will remember you.

 

I shook my head. What about my future legacy? Who would I turn to if there was nobody that recalled any trace of me? Who would I rely on? Who would I know? I needed someone. I needed a friend. I needed, I needed, I needed. I realized I hadn’t seen any relatives or any member of my family ever since we parted ways. No, I barely remembered any faces or any memory of them at all. I was sure they'd forgotten me by now, and I knew it hurt. I didn’t want my family, my biological ancestors to be forgotten and dusted away into nothing. I didn’t want our bloodline to flatline so easily.

 

I wished they would contact me. I wished they knew I was out here.

 

It didn’t happen immediately, but by some miracle, I don’t know how or when, I received text-messages from everyone I knew asking me if I was okay, if I was hurt, and did I need something from them. I gaped at the notifications on my phone–to which I came to a certain awareness that someone—or something out there heard my cries. I turn to the chilly snow-globe settled in my paws. It sure had a strange aura to it. Was it the one granting all the wishes? Maybe it was. I don’t know.

 

Well, I felt proud as I thought the wishes that the snow-globe had granted for me would fix things at first; maybe a fresh start of a new beginning, making new memories and maybe, just maybe new possibilities for future pathways. ‘After all’, I pondered to myself, ‘Wishes make new wonders, right’? I thought that I could achieve everything I never thought I needed back. It felt… good. It felt charming, and I felt like I could live in the moment for just a little longer.

 

But until then, the moment was shattered as soon as one day, I noticed that people in my town were disappearing. At first, it was only a few, so I didn’t worry about them too much, but as soon as the absence of the people in the main township started rising, and there were more reports, I began worrying. I began to panic. What have I done? What have I done? As if the situation couldn’t get any worse, people started suspecting each other.

 

That is when I knew I had to get away from here. Had to get away from it all. I packed my things, got on my winter coat, and began moving south-east, where nobody else could find me, where nobody lives.

 

I shouldn’t have done that.

 

I shouldn’t have messed with nature.

 

I look back.

 

The trees are watching.

DETECTIVE

Huh. Strangely this Case doesn’t continue onwards. Half of the text has faded out into nothing. Speaking of which, I’ve been trying to see if there’s invisible writing hidden under black-light, but such attempts have been unsuccessful, unfortunately.

 

In other news, after a couple of digging and research on my laptop, I found an article detailing Winterburg’s sudden disappearance from Brimstone Peaks and the Cross-Roads. Now, as I do believe that the Northern Ends do exist, I don’t believe that a small town called Winterburg can suddenly disappear due to a snow-globe. That’s just impossible, right?

 

I tried to get information out of Will, as he’s explained it’s from Winterburg, but the only thing he’s ever told me was of the town’s culture.

(snort)

(sigh)

 

Useless ass.

FADE OUT.

FADE IN:

Heavy breathing.

TOM(?)

Wh-where…? Barnes?

Quiet creaking of wood. Static rises to a crescendo.

TOM(?) lets out a choked wheeze as he sees something.

TOM(?)

Barnes? Barnes, it’s–

As TOM(?) touches his shoulder, he realizes it’s not Barnes.

DETECTIVE

Hello? Who… Who’s there?

The static squeals as the tapes whir faster.

TOM(?)

Me. Wait, no, come back. Come back, COME BACK!

As TOM(?) yells, his words die down into hushed whispers, and then finally, nothing.

What’s left of him—a tape drops to the ground.

DETECTIVE

…Huh? Where did this come from?

(calling)

Rynne? Goddamn it, you can’t leave stuff hanging around! Other people might steal it.

No response.

DETECTIVE

Well then.

DETECTIVE

Log CASE #01450-T begin.

R.S. Frank - a mysterious radio station in the middle of nowhere.

DETECTIVE (CASE)

It was all s’pposed to be a normal, fun roadtrip. A refreshing getaway from all the stress of my workload and paperwork. I hadn’t thought the least of what would happen to us.

 

I didn’t think it’d turn on me so soon.

 

For starters, I figured to dial a few people from my old friend group for a little break away from everything. It had been a while since we all split and parted our own ways, and I wanted to see them again, maybe catch up from some recent news and just meet up like old times, you know? Anyway, a few days later after I called them up, we met on a video call. Most of them remembered me, but I saw that some of them didn’t recognize me at first, however after I quickly reminded them of a few moments back when we were still together, their minds clicked. After a couple of light-hearted chatter and a few beats of consideration, I proposed a plan for a little voyage up into the Cross-Roads, or to keep it simple, the countryside. Rural states were often boundless, and still, right? “We should all take the edge off from our worries, guys. We can have fun once more, okay?” I smiled.

 

Of course, all paws were on deck.

 

The days following the roadtrip, when all of us gathered our supplies; a few plastic water-bottles, peanut mix packages [alongside a few snacks], and of course, a couple of board games if we ever got bored—packing them all up in suitcases, backpacks and vice versa. I set up a group chat before then, and texted them the exact location where we would have to meet up; considerably, outside of my house, on the porch. Soon enough, quite after some minutes, everyone arrived shortly on-time, and I gave everyone some time to check if they were missing any belongings, or if anyone was missing. As soon as I made sure that everything—and everyone—was all set, we moved into the car.

 

I’ll admit, driving along the road, looking at the sights passing by, was refreshing to me. I mean, I needed the release after spending a whole ‘eck load of time just being confined in a blandly coloured cubicle, doing a bunch of spreadsheets and boring paperwork punctually. Then again, maybe I was really stressed out back there, or ya know, carrying all my weight into a dead-end job with no final destination in sight for me.

 

That’s when I heard it.

Outwardly, it was only static I could hear on the radio. I didn’t think much of it, you see, but as we were progressing midway on the road, that’s when one of my friends, Jasmine Gemans, pointed it out. “Hey, R.S., dude, do you hear that? Sounds like… space.” At Jasmine’s words, I chuckled. Incipently, I thought it was a light-hearted joke, but until I strained my ears, and listened closely to what laid beyond the static, I began to hear what I presume was a low pitched groaning; a sound one could perceive was a black hole. It began to get louder. Before I knew it, My eyes were glued to the radio, and I feared if I even looked away, something would change. I didn’t blink for a moment. My paws trembled as they stayed firmly on the wheel, and I could feel my fur standing on end.

 

My heart pounded, and as I stared myself in the mirror, my eyes seemed to dilate at the same time I noticed the abrupt blackness behind me. Everyone else had disappeared. For a moment, I thought I was alone.

 

I felt a slight hint of breath upon my shoulder. Shit. “...?” I whispered into the darkness, and then, as if on cue, I first could make out two eyes; those white speckles of light from within the blackness. The rest of them followed through. My nerves seemed to fray, and my muscles tensed as I realized what was happening. Its paw–not really? but a tendril of some kind–reached for me. I tried to search for the cowl panel, to back away from this thing, but as soon as I found it, there was nothing. I look back. The tendril is right at my face. I screamed–no, scratch that–tried to scream but it was practically stuck in my throat; coming out as a choked gasp. Breathless. Moving air–drifting, swaying fast, faster, fastest–

 

falling d o w n out of orbit.

 

I saw stars.

 

And then black.

 

In the end, the paramedics had found us, and the car had crashed into the guardrails; the windshield glass completely shattered, and the bumper completely battered. Some of us were injured, but very few were dead. We tried to tell them about the radio station, but they jus’ assumed we were under the influence; accusing us of smuggling drugs and alcohol across the country. I swear we weren’t.

 

I didn’t know what I saw back there. Whatever it was, it wasn’t like anything else I had seen. Out of this world. I fear someday it will come back for me.

 

DETECTIVE

A few years after this Case was given, within the time-period that Mx. Frank went spelunking in 2004, at Rook Oasis; they had suddenly disappeared shortly after. All records and attempts to find her are a failure, and since then, the Case has since then marked as CLOSED,

As for the Case itself, I would presume Mx. Frank had gone through what I can only describe as a hallucination possibly from sleep deprivation or influence from illegal substances.

Wood creaking, Tom picks up the tape and places it on the table.

Camera pans to the tape. Ominous static builds.

FADE OUT.

FADE IN:

DETECTIVE

Log CASE #098067 begin.

Periwinkle Robbins – her strange neighour.

DETECTIVE (CASE)

Look, I can’t remember it in bulk, but I’ll keep this brief.

 

It started around late August where I still lived in the neighbourhood; mowing the lawn, and pulling out the weeds in the front yard. I wanted to plant some flowers; wormwood, narcissus and asphodel. It wasn’t until a while later, that I saw a moving truck move up to the next row over. As far as I was concerned, the house beside my own was pretty vacant, and nobody had taken the offer, moving in since there was one incident. From what I’ve heard was that a family disappeared shortly after they moved in, and apparently, this house was far more bigger inside than the outside. There was a documentary involving the family that mysteriously vanished, but as far as I know–nobody had found it even after months of searching.

 

So, this was a bit strange to hear about now. Despite the many warnings and dangers about this house, the person jus’ moved in. I asked the movers why they would move here, and not anywhere else. It felt like a strange decision to make. The movers snickered at my words, and grinned at me. “You do not understand, miss. The bull never loses.” Despite the answer that they gave me, it left me with more questions than answers. I tried to elaborate what the movers meant by that, but every time I asked, they seemed to ignore me.

 

Great. Now I had to figure it out for myself here.

 

At the time, I noticed that since the tenant had settled into their new home, I’ve been seeing the presence of cobwebs pop up here and there; all lingering in the little patches around my house. Now, I thought this was a sign that my house needed to be tidied. I mean, the floors and whatnot were already collecting dust. At some point, I dusted the shelves, rearranged a few things throughout some rooms; attic, bedrooms, and living room, and gently swept the floor. I, at least, thought that swiping away the cobwebs and brushing them into the trash can would do something to keep away the spiders at bay.

 

At the bare minimum, I thought cleaning the place would do it. I was wrong. The spiders kept coming.

 

At this point where I soon realized that there were too many cobwebs, cleaning become a sort of neverending torment; an personal hell reserved jus’ for me. I discover I was at a stalemate–no legal moves, and no possible escape–and figured I should give up. At least, I should’ve given up there. I should have beheld a vision of my own terror there.

I didn’t.

Because I knew there was something here.

A calling.

A tug towards pursuit.

 

‘That must be why the spiders must really like me.’ I thought. I could feel their thread dragging, pulling towards something. An undiscovered vault of knowledge, hidden within the darkness; where no man could reach for. Something had clicked inside my mind–I needed to find the source of the spiders; a striking verdict.

 

I found myself keeping track of all the days, searching every nook and cranny for a hole or unexpected entry they came through; hopefully taping it up and barricading it for measure. I took notes of the floor plans; post-it notes, annotations, and scribbles all over the place. My room became messier and disorganized, and my appearance seemed to become more gaunt and disheveled as time passed. The bright sunlight that filtered through my wide open windows began to hurt so I closed them. I needed to focus. I don’t know how long I was there; days? weeks? months? years? It seemed to blur together. I had friends and family, maybe even distant relatives try and reach me–ending up with nothing but a dialtone from the other end. I had nobody. No contact. No nothing. Only work. Only what lay beyond.

 

Eventually, all the research and whatnot came to a halt. I might have discovered it was probably hopeless. Finding satisfaction in these papers, in these records I’ve made, has led to nowhere. I could see nothing in my handwriting; only mindless ramblings and meaningless words. ‘This was pretty stupid.’ A voice whispered in my mind, ‘You’re never going to find patient zero’, and for a time, I believed it. Maybe I did this for shit.

 

But this following week, was when I saw it. I was taking out the trash then; carrying a big black bag of organics in my paw, over to the passageway where the green bin was, only to find what was a trail of chess pieces on the ground. I pondered that maybe someone was clearing out junk, so they threw away the board game, right? Here’s where things got weird. I mean, really weird, because I found out it led to the house next to mine. You know, the vacant one. Now, usually, the door’s locked for privacy, but this time it was unlocked. I took a peek inside.

 

Darkness. That only lured me closer.

Despite my stomach lurching, and my heart pounding. I threw myself inside the house. I knew it was a bad idea, but the string of inquisitiveness rebels against the state of danger. “Hello?” I called out. I can hear the skittering of spiders among the floorboards. I take a step forward, and the door slams shut behind me. I’m completely blind. I don’t have a flashlight. I have nothing on me. I impulsively step forward, hoping to catch something. “Hello?”

 

A spotlight flashes in the distance. I see a figure sitting at a table; his left hand holding something small–is he playing something?–and I watch him grin.

 

“Checkmate.” He says, before I am knocked out.

 

I don’t know what happened afterwards. It’s been a few months, Detective. I keep telling people about the house and- and the neighour but they don’t believe me. I checked what happened to the house, but there’s only an empty plot where the house should be, and a “For Sale” sign from Navidson Realty.

The house is gone.

DETECTIVE

Ms. Robbins shortly disappeared only a few days after this case. In search for further information and leads, Francis managed to dig up a number for Ms. Robbins’s wife. Unfortunately, she claimed to not know any Periwrinkle, and any investigations about the vacant house relating to Ms. Robbins was argued to be a hoax.

As for the “strange neighour”, there seems to be no leads or information online or in the archive of this Department. However, I did find a bunch of cases dating back to 1980 about a massacre–led by an unknown organization with its head being T.H., seemingly obsessed with chess–which made me think that these two people are the same.