The Magnus Archives - MAG 102 - Nesting Instinct

Episode Date: May 23, 2018

Case #0140406Statement of François Deschamps, regarding the family and presumed marriage of Benoît Maçon. Statement given June 4th 2014.Content Warnings for this episode are at the end of the show notes.Thanks to this week's Patrons: Tarryn McKay, Richard Nevell, Andrew Burton, Colleen Jay, Ally Greenspan, Elizabeth Parker, Jonathan Poock, DaemonswolfIf you'd like to support us, head to www.patreon.com/rustyquillEdited by Brock Winstead & Alexander J Newall.Performances:"The Archivist" - Jonathan Sims"Elias Bouchard" - Ben Meredith"Melanie King" - Lydia NicholasSound effects for this episode provided by qubodup, 14FPanskaKremenakova_Marie & previously credited artists via freesound.org.Check out our merchandise at https://www.redbubble.com/people/rustyquill/collections/708982-the-magnus-archives-s1You can subscribe to this podcast using your podcast software of choice, or by visiting www.rustyquill.com/subscribe.Please rate and review on your software of choice, it really helps us to spread the podcast to new listeners, so share the fear.Content Warning for: Knife violence Infestation Mind-control Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

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The Magnus Archives. Episode 102. Nesting Instinct. I'm sorry. Look, John, I understand you're upset. A month, Elias, and you did, what, nothing? I was doing everything in my power to locate you. Everyone was working on finding the ritual site. You didn't tell them I'd been kidnapped, though, did you? It wouldn't have helped matters. Martin's research, at least, would have been sloppier.

And imagine what might have happened if your rescue had been slower. Sarcasm isn't going to help, John. The only thing here that isn't going to help is you. I am sick of relying on the kindness of things whose stated intention is to kill me. I am sorry, John, that my powers have not yet reached the level of omniscience. And I am sorry that I have to spend so much time trying to help you develop your own faculties rather than explaining everything to you like a child. But you have a job to do and I cannot fight your battles for you. As far as I can tell, the only battles I've been fighting have been yours and Gertrude's.

I should have thought preventing the horrific transformation of our world is not solely my concern. Fine. At least we now know you're of zero practical use here. So aside from sending me other people's statements, what can you actually do to help? I have been trying to

give you the information you need. So when you're bashing its head in with a pipe? Leitner was... I will admit give you the information you need. So when you're not bashing its head in with a pipe. Leitner was... I will admit I possibly overreacted to his sudden re-emergence. He could have helped. You? No.

To you he offered nothing but the crutch of simple answers. If I hadn't stepped in, he could have significantly stunted your development, left you defenceless. Yeah. I can't imagine what it must feel like to be defenceless. I do regret... Gertrude's notes on the unknowing are... lacking.

I only shared the statements for a reason. You didn't even know why you were sending them to me, did you? Just, what, a box of random files she labelled? You were hoping I could figure out the reason Gertrude chose them. There is a possibility some of them were misfiled. So what do we actually know? John. Don't you dare.

John me. If you want my help, I'm going to need that crutch. Gertrude believed that the unknowing was going to take the form of a dance. It required a great deal of intact human skin to clothe what she referred to as the corpse de ballet, though I suspect that's just her sense of humour. There is also one, the Danseuse 12, that requires a costume of special power or distinction. Gertrude believed that Orsinov and his circus

created a dancer specifically for this role. I've met it. Calls itself Nicola. There's also something else in the notes she calls the choir, but no real detail on that. As far as where it will happen... It's a wax museum. Old. Mostly abandoned, wax museum. Old.

Mostly abandoned, I think. I don't know exactly where, but... That still narrows it down significantly. I'll have the others start digging. How do we... How do I stop it? Gertrude seemed to think that once the dance begins, it's tied to its location. Sufficiently disrupting that might be enough to derail the ritual.

She mentioned she had acquired something for this purpose, but she gave no detail as to exactlying that might be enough to derail the ritual. She mentioned she had acquired something for this purpose, but she gave no detail as to exactly what that might be. And you can't just see where she put it? She was... She got very good at hiding things from me. How embarrassing for you. Is there anyone else who might know what it is, or where? Aside from Light now, or Gerard?

Sorry? Gerard Key? Uh, yes. How did you... Who told you he was working with Gertrude? No one. I just... I read it in one of the statements. I don't think you did. You just knew it.

No, that's not a... No, no, no, John, this is good. It's a promising development. It's just a deduction. Is this the first time it's happened? Look, I don't... Look, Gerard's not really a lead. He's dead, isn't he? Yes, but I believe he and Gertrude travelled together shortly before he passed away.

Perhaps if we could retrace their steps, we might find something. I think by we, you of course mean... I'll see if I can hunt down a few relevant statements... What? Melanie is on her way up here with a knife. Could you talk to her for me? Sorry, what? She's hoping that even if I see it coming, she'll still be able to overpower me.

She's wrong, of course, but I'd be keen to avoid that sort of struggle. She's trying to kill you? Yes, again. Even more than the others, she has a visceral hatred of being trapped, regardless of how much freedom I afford her. I don't... Come in, Melanie. Elias, I just brought...

What are you doing here? Put the knife down, Melanie. Melanie! Get out of my way! I don't believe this isn't the way. You haven't been here. You don't know... I was kidnapped!

Oh. Sorry. I mean, yeah, Elias is... Seriously. Seriously. You too. Has he got everyone fooled? If he dies, we die.

It's not even a good lie. I mean, why would it not be true? If he's managed to bind us, why wouldn't he be able to do that? John, look at me. There is only one way out of this, and it is through him. I get that you hate being here,

Melanie, but do you really want to trade it for prison? No. But the way I see it, the police seem really keen not to investigate crimes committed here. That's actually fair. Shut up. Melanie, please. It's not just being stuck here, John. It's not just me.

He's manipulating you. He's manipulating all of us. Can you seriously not see that? He's pulling all the strings and I don't think there's any other way to stop it. So get out of my way. I'm sorry, Melanie, but we need him. We will find a way to deal with him,

but not today. And not like this. I am still here, you know. And if you weren't, I assume you would be watching this conversation, so... Melanie, we can't do this. Not yet. All right. We'll try it your way.

But whatever your way actually is, you'd better figure it out fast. Because it is your fault that I'm here. Fix it, or get out of the way. Thank you, John. Shut up. Statement of Francois de Champs regarding the family and presumed marriage of Benoit Masson. Statement given June 4th, 2014.

Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, head archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins. Why do you need me to live it over again? To recount a story you know well enough already? You were there, at least for the parts worth discussing. You want me to tell you what happened before then, how I met Benoit, his character, how he became my friend? Truth be told, he was not my friend. He was simply a colleague, someone I might describe myself as well-disposed to, but probably not even that. It may seem dismissive to you, but in my experience there are two situations where one finds themselves working behind a bar when over the age of forty. The first is that you own the establishment yourself, or the English call a publican, and see no reason to hire others to perform duties you are quite capable of yourself.

The second is when a profound failure has brought you to the middle of your life with no wealth, no prospects, and no skills that could be applied in more lucrative avenues. Suffice it to say that Benoit Masson did not own Le Papillon Blanc. It was not one of the most fashionable spots in Toulouse, sitting just on the edge of where the tourist-facing centre meets the firmly residential, and never quite settling on either side. It billed itself as a café in the day, but most of its business was after dark, when all pretense was dropped and it became simply a comparatively cheap place to drink. I worked the bar there with Benoit and a few others, and had done for a couple of years since I left school.

Of all the others who worked for Le Papillon alongside me, I would probably have said that Benoit was the one who interested me the least. There was an air of sadness about him, a melancholy that I found unsurprising, given the position he had found himself in, but distasteful nonetheless. My own life has certainly had its hardships, and I cannot help but detest those who indulge in self-pity.

Though, having seen his fate, perhaps some pity was earned. Benoit was, as far as I could tell, all alone in the world, and rather unhappy about the fact. It was rare that the topic of parents or family would be raised or discussed without his appearing, as if from nowhere, to quietly volunteer the fact that his parents were dead, or his lack of siblings, or whatever it might have been. Whatever familial bond was the topic of conversation, Benoit Masson did not have it, and expected, no, demanded, that you pity him for the fact. It will not surprise you to learn that he wore no wedding demanded, that you pity him for the fact. It will not surprise you to learn that he wore no wedding ring,

that when a young couple would enter the café to pass their time in wine and affection, he would simply stare at them, his face a mask of ill-concealed envy. I am deeply grateful it was rare that we had children in Le Papillon, as the one time they came in while he was on shift, he vanished for almost twenty minutes, and when he returned, it was clear he'd been crying. All told, he was a pathetic, lonely man, desperate for any human connection, a connection I had no intention of offering him. Quite frankly, I believe I have spoken more words about Benoit Masson in the last five minutes than I did in all the many months we worked together. I wasn't even the one that noticed the changes in his behaviour. That was our manager, Lucille.

About five weeks ago, she offhandedly asked me if I knew of any alteration in Benoit's personal or home life. He had, so she told me, been significantly more cordial with her over the previous few days. He had been smiling, laughing, generally not acting like himself. I told her I didn't know and hadn't noticed, but the next shift I saw what she meant. It was as though a different man were wearing the skin of Benoit, a man who had always known the deep joys of life. I watched this new person go about their happy life for almost an entire night before I finally decided that I simply had to ask him what had happened. At first he appeared puzzled by my question, but when I told him how much happier he seemed, his smile grew wide. He leaned in close to me and looked around playfully as if pretending to check for eavesdroppers.

A woman, he said at last. Francois, I am in love, and she loves me. And then, without warning, he grabbed me with both arms and pulled me into a short embrace which I was simply too stunned to resist. Up close, I could not help but notice the faintest of odours from his skin. It was a damp smell, like decaying wood, and it wasn't until I had a chance to shower and change my clothes after work that I finally managed to rid myself of it completely. It was not a pleasant smell, certainly, but it was not

awful. What bothered me was its presence at all. I knew Benoit to be a clean, almost fastidious man, prone to wearing slightly too much cologne. This was new, and beyond that there was something to the smell itself, some memory of a childhood spent in the country around Lyon, of wandering out into the damp heat after a summer rain, of turning over logs slick with moisture to reveal the crawling underbelly beneath them. But for the most part, I ignored it. After all, if I could remain unconcerned about Benoit when he was miserable, doing so when he was happy hardly seemed like a challenge. And indeed he continued to be happy, almost to the point of bliss for almost the entire month following.

The smell was growing ever so gradually stronger, to the point where I would occasionally see my colleagues wrinkle their noses when he went to talk to them. But it never quite reached the stage where it felt worth bringing up with Lucille. Benoit's hygiene more generally also started to noticeably decline. At first, his shirts would be wrinkled when he arrived for work, when before I had only ever seen him wear them crisply ironed. Then there were small stains or tears that could be spotted, as his clothes seemed to be washed less and less regularly.

Again, none of this was glaringly obvious, and if his behaviour hadn't drawn my attention, it's likely I never would have noticed it at all. Certainly, none of the patrons of Le Papillon Blanc ever seemed bothered by his appearance or cleanliness. Through it all, he would talk incessantly to anyone who would listen about this woman who had apparently changed his life. Mon petit scarabée, changed his life. Mon petit scarabée, his little beetle. I was never able to get her actual name from Benoit, as he only seemed to refer to her by that weird nickname. Clear details were also difficult to establish. He could talk for an hour over what his little beetle had told him over breakfast, but when asked about what she did, where she was from, what she looked

like, he would always find a way to talk around it and shift the conversation in a new direction. We managed to establish that she had children, as Benoit would often make reference to the little ones, his eyes lighting up with parental pride. They couldn't have been his, obviously, but that didn't seem to matter to him. But, as with their mother, solid details about these children were almost impossible to establish. I would have suspected this new family of his wasn't even real, were it not for the fact that he was clearly not faking his joy or contentment. Either his petit scarabée was real, or Benoit was suffering from a very complex delusion indeed. It never occurred to me it might have been both. It was two days ago that it happened. I was thinking earlier how unlikely it was to have

been looking so precisely at such a specific spot at such a specific time as to make me absolutely sure of what I witnessed. If I had glanced over a second later, or only caught it from the corner of my eye, I could have easily dismissed it. After all, the simple presence of insects is not in and of itself remarkable. It was where this particular insect came from, however, that shook me so deeply. Benoit was leaning over the bar, listening to a young man who, I believe, was ordering for quite a large group. As this customer listed off his drinks, Benoit's hand rested lightly upon the countertop, and I found for no reason I could readily provide, my gaze was resting upon the fingers of his hand. Without any warning or reaction from Benoit himself, there seemed to be movement from the ring finger of his right hand.

right hand. A slight shudder, a shifting of the skin beneath his fingernail. A small patch of darkness seemed to grow just below it, expanding until it resolved itself into the shape of an insect. It pushed itself smoothly and quickly out from below his fingernail, and dropped down onto the bar, scuttling away and out of sight so quickly I lost it almost immediately. It had all happened in a matter of moments, and there was no blood, no reaction from Benoit, no evidence that it had truly happened at all, apart from my shaking legs and the feeling I was going to collapse. And it was in that state that your associate found me. At the time I thought he was your son. His French was significantly better than yours, and it took some time and some difficulty translating before I could fully explain to you

what had happened. You rebuffed all my questions about your interest in Benoit and his situation, as you resolutely have since. I am telling you my story, since you have asked so nicely, but I will never truly forgive either of you for what you have shown me. I should have been more suspicious of this man, too old for his poorly dyed hair, leading me to an old woman who promised me answers in exchange for an address. I should have walked away. I shouldn't have offered to go with you. But I was in shock from what I had seen, and I believe you could have told me to do almost anything and I would have been unlikely to argue. You tried to cross-examine me about things I didn't understand. Étranger ou le saleté. I honestly had no idea what you were talking about.

But I didn't put up a fight when you told me to get Benoit's address. I don't know why you agreed when I asked to come with you. I wish you hadn't. Do you really need me to describe it? You saw it for yourselves. The flowing tide that swarmed and scuttled as soon as the door opened. The smell that rolled out of that apartment like a choking wall. The thing that embraced Benoit. Mon petit scarabée. The only thing I don't know is if you saw in as much detail as I did the look of sheer contentment and joy on poor Benoit's face as his family crawled all over him.

I don't care about what the police might have done. Your young colleague was right. You should have burned the place to the ground. I have nothing more to say to you. Statement ends. This is, um... This is written in French. All of it. I don't...

I don't speak French. I don't read. I've never... I wish I could find it in myself to be surprised. A statement, it seems, given directly to Gertrude, though not apparently recorded. Did she perhaps leave her tape recorder at home when she took this little field trip with Gerard? June 2014. Barely a year before her murder, and less than half that before Gerard Key's brain tumour would lead to his own death.

Did he know already that his life was ending? Was he trying to accomplish one last good deed before the end? Were they both? Étranger ou la saleté. Foreigner or dirt stranger or filth I can see why with limited information Mr. de Champs' account could lend itself to either interpretation sudden appearance of a vague and previously unknown figure inserting itself into someone's life,

on the one hand, and on the other, bugs and bad smells. Let it never be said the hive and its ilk are subtle. Still, closer examination points pretty conclusively in that direction. It must have been a disappointment, especially if, as I suspect, Gertrude and Gerard were searching for information on the unknowing. Becerra did some cursory follow-up on the statement itself. Benoit Masson definitely died in late June 2014, but the Toulouse police records regarding the matter are firmly sealed. François de Champs has refused our request for a follow-up interview.

He did forward us one item, however. I can't read the French on this one, but it appears to be a crudely printed wedding invitation. Benoît Masson is the only name legible on it, as most of the details are obscured by a wide variety of dried stains. Most helpful of all, though, is the simple fact that Gertrude was in Toulouse in June 2014. The information I found from her laptop doesn't give a complete picture of her travels but now I know when to look

And it appears that when she left Toulouse, she did not return to London Instead, it looks like she took several connecting flights eventually ending up in Wellington International Airport in New Zealand I can't find any other details on the computer but I'm going to ask the others to see if they can't find any other details on the computer, but I'm going to ask the others to see if they can hunt down any statements referencing New Zealand in or around mid-2014. It might be a wild goose chase, but it's the best lead I have. In the meantime, I...

I have a new flat. I should try to get comfortable, change the locks. Even if I might need to be leaving it for a while. Oh, and I suppose I... I did tell Georgie I'd try to talk to Martin. You're sure you don't mind? No, no, no, it's fine. I've kind of stopped noticing, if I'm honest.

They just sort of turn themselves on these days. I'm so sorry, John. Elias didn't even tell any of us that you'd been kidnapped. I didn't know. No one else was telling me. It's all right, it's all right. Elias didn't tell anyone. There was no way you could have known. I mean, I wasn't exactly here before. No, you weren't.

But I am sure that if you could have been, you would have. Are you all right? They didn't hurt you at all? Oh, no, no. I'm okay. I mean, my skin's in better condition than ever. Is that a weird thing to say? A bit.

It was basically all she talked about. Or so enough, it was... How's everyone been? Oh, well, we've been fine. I mean, well, not great. Tim's still not doing well. Melanie seems okay, but I get the feeling she's... I don't know, planning something?

I got that feeling too. Basira's the only one doing... Well, she seems weirdly calm about the whole thing. Like it's... like she's on a vacation or something. Maybe she just suits the academic life. What about Daisy? Don't see her much. Which is fine by me.

Does the rest of the Institute know what's going on down here? I mean, I never really paid attention, but... Not really, I think. I mean, Tim's been going on about it to anyone who listens, but I think they just think he's had a bit of a breakdown. Well, I mean... I mean, they can quit, you know. Hannah just left to have her listens, but I think they just think he's had a bit of a breakdown.

Well, I mean... I mean, they can quit, you know. Hannah just left to have her baby, though. I don't know who that is. Yeah, you do, Hannah. She works in the library, black, kind of stocky. Had that whole thing with the milk in the break room last year. Oh, I'm sorry, I really don't... Well, anyway, I think they all just see the archives as kind of weird and leave us to it. You know? Better us than them. I mean, they're not wrong.

So, are you coming back? I don't know. Probably not yet. I think I might be on a bit of a treasure hunt. Oh? Treasure in the sense of the world not ending. Oh. I will keep in touch. I'm going to need all of you digging into stuff. Elias mentioned... he said you'd been reading statements.

Oh. Uh. Yeah. Um. He thought it might help... Right, I mean, they're not... They haven't... You've been okay.

Uh. Yeah. I mean, it wasn't fun, but if it helps, then I... Okay, if you're sure, just make sure the others help you, all right? Statements can be... If you're not used to them, it can be a bit weird. Sure. Anyway, I should go. I've got a few leads to follow up.

Right, right. I'm sorry, man. I know we haven't talked much since Sasha and everything. Well, I mean, it's not too late. You know, unless the world ends. Yeah. commercial share-alike 4.0 international license. Today's episode was written by Jonathan Sims and directed by Alexander J. Newell. To subscribe, view associated material, or join our Patreon, visit RustyQuill.com. Rate and review us online, tweet us at TheRustyQuill, visit us on Facebook, or email us at mail at RustyQuill.com. Join our communities on the forum via the website or on Reddit at r slash the Magnus Archives. Thanks for listening. To be continued... and mind-bending stories, Audible has everything you need. Audible is the leader in audiobooks,

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