The Magnus Archives - MAG 169 - Fire Escape

Episode Date: May 28, 2020

Case ########-9Considerations on the sanctity of home. Recorded by the Archivist in Situ. Content warnings:- Swearing- Loud/sudden noise- Fire / Burning buildings (inc SFX)- Mass suffering- Housing insecurity/anxiety- Landlord neglect & tenant abuse- Death of a parent- Health & safety violations- Bedbugs/infestation- Domestic toxicity (mentions)- Coughing/smoke inhalation (inc SFX)- Character deathThanks to this week's Patrons: Gabi Marler, Sammy Winchester, Cinna_The_Poet, Laurence, Mara K, Mary Stanfield, Elliot Burnette, Eva LaDow, Gadzooks, David Paul, kinoartistov, Witch, Levin Garbisch, Joe Rich, scaredy cat, Stark, cattywampus, Empatik, Platonicallyinlovewithtrees, Daria Hoey, Graham Patrick Gallagher, Megan Beattie, Michaela Kinnear, Jaime!, Brooklyn Haight, Mikaela B, Ivy Wong, Saudith Sanchez, Sibo Wang, Francesca, Marianna Terzakis, Meghan Shearer, Poison Quills, Ex_Astra, Maggie Bostic, Rey, Robin, Ariel Allen, Rebecca Seaby, Meriam and Brenton, If you would like to join them, be sure to visit www.patreon.com/rustyquillEdited this week by Annie Fitch, Elizabeth Moffatt, Brock Winstead & Alexander J NewallWritten by Jonathan Sims and directed by Alexander J NewallProduced by Lowri Ann DaviesPerformances:- "Martin Blackwood" - Alexander J. Newall - "The Archivist" - Jonathan Sims - "Jude Perry" - Hannah WalkerSound effects this week by aglinder, bottles, BurghRecords, IEDlabs, kingsrow, Aegersum, Diegolar, LudwigMueller, CastIronCarousel, ceich93, dobroide, ienba, samueljustice00, dheming, dansotak, gladkiy, templeofhades, The_Sean_, tim.kahn, ToxicFilmzSRsounds, JoelAudio, kragdigital, kyles, nebulousflynn, malexmedia, pauliep83, reznik_Krkovicka, Rudmer_Rotteveel, sofi.om, Soundkrampf, utsuru, Wdomino, YleArkisto, zimbot, JoelAudio, kyles, reznik Krovicka & previously credited artists via freesound.org.Special thanks to this week's sponsor "Crypto-Z" for more information visit www.euphonie.mediaCheck 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/subscribePlease rate and review on your software of choice, it really helps us to spread the podcast to new listeners, so share the fear.Join our community:WEBSITE: rustyquill.comFACEBOOK: facebook.com/therustyquillTWITTER: @therustyquillREDDIT: reddit.com/r/RustyQuillEMAIL: [e-mail] Magnus Archives is a... Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

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Episode 169 Fire Escape Martin? Still with me? Yeah, yeah, just... Jesus. Some fears don't need to be intensified. Only manifested. Were you even going to be able to make it through all that?

It's amazing, eh? Deliberately so. People running, desperately struggling for fire escapes, only to find them blocked. We won't get lost, though. I know the route. Not really what I was getting at, John. Go on. Seriously? You don't...

It's on fire, John. It's... It's a burning building. Yes, it is. That's on fire. Yes. Right. You are aware that traditionally wading into a flaming inferno is actually considered bad for your health? Yes, Martin. It'll be fine.

Right, I just wanted to check. So, okay, we're planning to go through all this, so I'm guessing the fire can't actually burn us. Right? John? Um. John? Um. John? Um. John?

It's complicated. Well, if you want me to go in there with you, then I suggest you find a way to make it simple. Yes or no, can that fire hurt us? Define hurt. Will the fire feel hot to me? Yes. Will it cause me lots of pain if I touch it? Yes, though not as much as...

Will it burn me alive and kill me dead? No. It can't do us any permanent harm. Once we're out, we'll be fine. You are aware that intense pain can do you loads of harm, even if there's no physical injury. Yes, I know, okay. I'll take us through the parts that are more subdued.

It goes in phases. Sometimes there are whole apartments that aren't actively on fire for hours. How reassuring. Well, it's the best I can do. You're sure there isn't another way? Yeah, yeah, I know. The journey will be the journey. Blah, blah. Ominous. Blah. I'm sorry.

It's fine. I know you wouldn't take us through if we didn't actually need to go through, so... What? Well... John, is there another way? I mean, sort of. Maybe? That turn. You took a hard turn after the roots back there.

I knew that was a thing. Why are we here? It's just... When you said... John, why have you taken us here? Jude Perry. This is where Jude Perry rules. That's the one who burned your hand, isn't it?

Yes. Right. I just assumed this would be... Who was that landlord guy? Arthur Nolan. He's here. He has a part of it, but it's huge. Bigger than you could believe. There's so much fear in there. But we're not going after him, are we? No You said you were on board I was I am I just thought

It wouldn't hurt That we'd be safe I never said I know I know, okay I just Look, I just don't want to get burned, alright It's like my least favourite pain ever

Is that a joke? No, no, okay I legitimately hate burns, right? They're awful, and they scar horribly, and they just... It just makes me sick. I hate it. Hate it!

All right. If you really don't want to do this, we can go another way. Really? Really. My revenge... Well, let's just say you're more important. It's not just your revenge, though, is it?

Destroying her... It would help all those people in there, wouldn't it? Maybe. It's... Like I said, I can't see the future. You wouldn't free them, if that's what you're asking. Free doesn't really exist in this place. Apart from us? I suppose. In a sense, though. How much of that is because we are trapped in our own quest to...

Let's not dive into another ontological debate right now. Not here. Fair enough. So are we going in or not? You're... You're asking me? I should have told you before, so... I leave the decision to you. You know my feelings on the matter. I do?

I... Oh, right. I want revenge on Jude Perry. I want to... smite her. Make her feel what... what all her victims have felt. But I'm not willing to force you to smite her. Make her feel what all her victims have felt. But I'm not willing to force you to suffer for it. Okay, so it's...

I have to choose, do I? We could sit here. No. No, I'm not going to choose. I don't think that's a fair decision to put on me. It's your revenge. Your choice, not mine. Fine. We go in. All right, then.

We'll be fine. Lead the way. All right then. We'll be fine. Lead the way. Home. Such a simple word. Home. Such a simple word. Home. Not house, not dwelling, not residence or address, not domicile or flat or lodging or abode or apartment or property or accommodation. Home. A structure of brick or wood or concrete or canvas. A box in which you pack yourself away when the long day is done. A book neatly closed and placed snugly on a shelf.

There's no place like home. An Englishman's home is his castle. Home is where the heart is. And home is where that heart can be hurt most severely, because within that place of safety, the warm and welcoming embrace of the cramped and well-trod floors whose layout has ingrained itself into your soul, there you are most vulnerable. Your home is an extension of yourself as much as you will let it be, and the place and the people and the things that form it and fill it are as much a part of you as your blood, as your bile, as your tears.

Perhaps you know the feeling that comes rushing over you when your home is compromised, invaded, corrupted. Perhaps a burglary gives lie to the promise of safety you took from a flimsy front door and a cheap lock. Maybe the dirt and grime builds up to such a degree that the stench begins to infect your soul or an infestation of moths or ants or bed bugs stretches itself throughout the very structure of your home until it feels like your skin is squirming with them. structure of your home until it feels like your skin is squirming with them. You may even find yourself living with a hostile, toxic presence, be they family, friend or stranger, that poisons your home, turning blessed relief and rest from the tribulations

of the world into a choking fog of anxiety and fear. Such are the dangers of a rotten home. But how many truly control their home? How many have extended their soul into the walls of a place that exists only at the whim of those who would let them die in the street were it not for the gain that can be squeezed from them? A home you cannot control, that you cannot even be sure will exist with the turning of the seasons, where stability and peace, rot and calamity,

exist only at the behest of faceless names that lace themselves throughout labyrinthine paperwork, chaining you to the front of a truck whose motion you cannot control. Do you smell smoke? Do you smell the creeping ruin of a life, a stalking creature of unmaintained electricals, of cheap insulation, of cut corners and missing fire alarms and unenforced safety regulations? Do you see it creeping under the door to your bedroom as you sleep, the burning coals of its eyes regarding you and the supposed safety of your home, not indifferent but hungry, eager to take everything from you, to burn down your life in any sense it can reach? Can you hear the crackling promise of

kindled despair that it whispers into your uneasy, dreaming ear? Sabina senses it, feels it drawing near. How long has she lived here? How long have these cramped, dingy rooms in the back of this sprawling, run-down tenement been the place her heart calls home? She cannot recall, but long enough for her to grow into love for it. To cherish every rusted appliance, every crumbling piece of plasterboard, every flickering lightbulb. Even as the widening cracks and spreading mould fill her heart with dread, they gently, slowly, inch by inch approach the mildewed room where her parents lie sleeping. Sabina cannot picture their faces, but knows that should they wake to see the state of the place, their anger would be blistering. She sits there on the ratty, torn sofa, trying to bring herself

to stand up, to do something about the place that is crumbling around her. But she is locked there by the sure knowledge that anything she touches could result in the complete loss of what small stability she has. She barely notices how hot her tears are becoming. Which sense is the first to warn her? What nerves are the first ones to fire the white-hot bolts of agonising panic through Sabina's body? Does she smell it, the rising smoke? a slow and subtle scent, like someone's burned their toast and... is that hair? Does she hear it, the distant roaring, like the soft growl of a lion who never stops approaching, spotted with shrieks and screams that might just be her imagination? Does she see it, the glow of the flames, pulsing slow and steady, the dull orange

of old streetlights, but somehow strong enough to push through the cracks around the front door. Does she feel it? The rising prickly heat, like she has sat too close to an electric radiator for too long, and her skin has begun to redden and blossom before the bars into thick beads of sweat. Or does she taste it, in the back of her throat, the sick, queasy terror that tells her she knows exactly what is coming, because it's all happened before? Once again, the handle of the front door begins to glow red-hot, the metal bending and distorting as it melts. From the crack underneath, the fire drags itself forward, curling and caressing the rough coir of the mat that cheerily announced, welcome home. Its movements are flickering, rhythmic, almost hypnotic

and as her mind screams at her to stand, to run, to escape she simply sits there eyes locked on the dancing lights emerging around her front door she smiles the same smile she did when she was a child staring at the bonfire at camp, though every nerve in her body is alight with fear. Then the welcome mat ignites completely, in an instant turning from a gentle smoulder to a gout of flame, and whatever strange compulsion holds her in place snaps like a wire cable.

She leaps to her feet and starts screaming, calling for help for her parents. She runs to the door to their room, but as she approaches she can feel the heat already wafting out from behind it. She can hear them crying out in agony, begging for her to save them as their pain crescendos. She can smell the oily reek of charred skin as they call to her, She can smell the oily reek of charred skin as they call to her. We're burning. We're burning. Oh, please God, Sabina. We're burning.

She grabs the handle, ignoring the sizzling of her own flesh and pushing through the lancing needles of torment to force it down, trying to free her unseen parents. But the door latch never really aligned properly, you see. The landlord always said he was going to get it fixed, and it refuses to open. Sabina pounds helplessly on the smoking wood as the voices of her parents go quiet. Pushing down a grief that threatens to overwhelm her senses, she charges to the window, rushing to reach the old fire escape beyond. The window frame never really opened properly, you see. The landlord always said he was going to get it fixed.

And it judders as she tries to force it open, freezing a few inches from the bottom. Sabina pushes all her might into it, but the glass cracks and shatters, peppering her with razor-sharp shards, cutting her face to ribbons. She stumbles, trying to climb through the jagged window regardless, and she can feel the cool iron of the fire escape, a moment of blessed relief that shines through her suffering. But the fire escape was always really rusty, you see. The landlord always said he was going to replace it. And at the first tiny bit of weight she puts upon it,

she can feel the fastenings pop out of the old brick one by one, and her salvation tumbles away into the impossible distance below. What floor was her flat on again? Surely it can't be this high. Falling back into the inferno that is now her home, Sabina dashes over to the laughably small fire extinguisher the landlord begrudgingly provided. It is sputtering and empty. She runs to the sink, to the tap that has always made that unpleasant grinding sound,

and turning it unleashes only a slow trickle of a thick, dark, oozing substance that smells faintly of gas. Limping and desperate, she turns to see her furniture in flames. The bookshelves full of memories that she can't quite place but knows are precious to her curl and float away as ash. The photos on the wall of her family, whose faces seem indistinct but she knows that she loves, begin to blacken as the glass pops out of the frame. Her home is being eaten alive by this devouring desolation.

John! She's here! Hello, Jude. Fancy seeing you both here. So what exactly do I owe the pleasure, the honour, of being graced by the great and powerful archivist Hubbinger of this new world? And his... value? Naturally, we came to see you. What a treat.

I have a question for you. I've been wondering. Did you know what you were doing? Excuse me? When you burned me. Marked me with... Did you know it would lead to all of this? You came all this way just to ask that? Answer the question.

If you want to know so badly, why don't you just reach into my head and pull it out? Because I wanted to hear you say it. Willingly. What difference does it make if... Just answer the damn question. No. I had no idea. So why did you do it?

Why do you think? Because I wanted to hurt you. Because you were annoying and I didn't like you. So why did you do it? Why do you think? Because I wanted to hurt you. Because you were annoying and I didn't like you. So I hurt you. And if you had? But I didn't. Look, I don't care, okay? I just...

I don't. Breaking over the past like it matters, like it means anything. The past is dead, archivist, ashes in the wind. We're here now. And that's it. I suppose you're right. So the real question is, what happens now? John, look out!

What's wrong? Scared of a little flame? Oh, you are are aren't you pathetic screw you leave him alone you're not scared though are you

archivist I can feel the pain of every person you have trapped here my own isn't all that different yeah but you like seeing their pain don don't you? Their fear. Yes. You and that stupid eye. God, you make me sick. Lording it over everybody like you own the place.

You're just leeches. Oh yes, parasites and the real monsters. Enough. Oh, yes. Parasites and the real monsters. Enough. Fine. Just messing around. Wouldn't want to keep you from your oh-so-special business, your holiness. I wouldn't worry about that.

I'm right where I want to be. What's that supposed to mean? I'm here for you, Jude. To end you What? No No way You won What would be the point of You're bluffing

You know I'm not You're already afraid Oh I see I get it You finally get a sniff of power and the first thing you do is try to settle some old scores. Play the big man. Get off on some good old fashioned petty revenge. I'd have thought that was a mindset you would appreciate. Now feel it. All the terror

and pain you've inflicted. Oh, piss off. Look, look. Wait. Right. I'm sorry, okay? I shouldn't have burned your hand. No, you shouldn't have. Please don't kill me. Sure, I'm known about the eye. Who doesn't? But we've won, both of us. And that's great. If I'd known, would I still have marked you? Yes, I would. I'm happy in this world. I belong here.

And so do you. Listen, listen. You're enjoying this, right? Of course you are. You want to use those powers of yours to hurt people. You want to murder everybody who can't fight back at you now? I can help you. Just die already! You're not better than me! Is it... It's over. She's gone. The fires are still here.

Doesn't look like much has changed. I suppose not. The fires are still here. Doesn't look like much has changed. No. I suppose not. Let's just get out of here. The Magnus Archives is a podcast distributed by Rusty Quill and licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial Sharealike 4.0 international license. Today's episode was written by Jonathan Sims, produced by Laurie-Anne Davis, and directed by Alexander J. New.

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