The Magnus Archives - MAG 180 - Moving On

Episode Date: September 24, 2020

Case ########-20Considerations of grief and respite.Audio recorded by the Archivist, in situ.Content warnings:Second-person perspectiveDeath & mortalityViolence (inc SFX)Undead (zombies)Religious abuseChild abuse (descriptions of)Mentions of: knives, gaslightingSFX: persistent droningThanks to this week's Patrons: Mary A., Rave, HatsuneMoocow, Moth_Lad, Salem Wicker, Neil Hart, Crunchy Writes, Jessica Longaker, Lynn Borsum, Jamie Knierim, Brooke Autrey, N, Birdie Birdson, Julia Reith, El Hudson, Sidney Kaufman, OliverOiyle, book__wyrm, Cheryl Abramoff, Cat Thompson, Stephanie Hunt, Taylor S Anady, Rhys Halcyon Lightning, Gabby Oddenino, Sarah Oberhofer, Charlie Thomas, DelugeDirge, Leighton, Juan John Jaune, Milo, Taylor Pestel, Morgan Claire Ireland, Crow, Moony Uhrmann, Cee-Sing Wong, Rebecca Dupont, Kenla Dee, Jay C. Elle, gwolfe, Brooke Worthington, molieretzu, Josefien Kwakkenbos, Charlie Kiil, Nico Keil, Vick Vought, The RQvist, Valeri SchwagerIf you'd like to join them 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  - "Annabelle Cane" - Chioma Nwalioba- "Mikaele Salesa" - Ray Chong NeeSound effects this week by Spanac from freesoundslibrary.com, klankbeeld, tedlundwall, Anthousai, huskpodcast.com, LamaMakesMusic, nebulousflynn, Jamitch2, supreme1197, Lightnessko, Taira Komori, michael_kur95, saturdaysoundguy, 3bagbrew, TheHiraHira, mlsulli, Suburbanwizard, bbrocer, vckhaze, lunchmoney, gezortenplotz, voho , sagetyrtle, FocusBay, InspectorJ, thanvannispen, yadronoff, worthahep88, avakas, XxBirdoxX, dheming, cclaretc, ThatMisfit, crcavol, IPaddeh, bsung88, SleepyCatSound, sturmankin & previously credited artists via freesound.orgMusic:https://freesound.org/people/IESP/sounds/340062/ Recording date February 06, 2016University of Lethbridge, Canada.Recorded by The IntraEnvironmental Sound ProjectBeethoven:Piano Sonata No.31 in A-Flat Major, Op. 110: I. Moderato cantabile, molto espressivoCheck 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:

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Know your risks. Visit heartandstroke.ca Rusty Quill Presents The Magnus Archives Episode 180. Moving on. Oh, right you are. Sorry, I just... Don't lose sight of you. You keep disappearing behind tombs and that.

I'll try to slow down. Thank you. I'd really rather not end up lost in a... What do you call it? A necropolis. It's like a cemetery, but all the tombs are above ground. New Orleans has a very impressive one. Well, had.

It's usually for places where the ground floods often or is too swampy for burial. Oh, yeah, yeah, I'm sure this place is just here because of all the flooding swamps. No, obviously, this place is a manifestation of... No, no. I understand. Of course. Sorry, I've just... I've been hearing altogether too many of your statements lately, and...

Yeah, no, no, I... I get it. Just a little break. That's fair enough. In fact, this time, when you start to... intone, I'm gonna find a nice soundproof mausoleum, and just... just chill with whatever horrors they've got lurking in there, you know? Maybe play a bit of I Spy or something. I'll start. I spy with my little eye something beginning with T. Toons. Cheetah.

I did not. Your turn. Fine. I spy with my little eye literally everything. Right. Sorry. Forgot. Levity's just off the cards. How are you doing? About... Yeah, yeah. I'm... I don't know. I'm not sure how to feel. Just... pressing on, you know? I do. You think she'll be okay without us? She's made it this far.

Yeah. I just worry. Yeah, me too. But I'm... keeping an eye on her, so... Is that... It's not for us. Let's keep moving. Yeah, alright. Come on.

Hey, hey, I said slow down. Sorry. How exactly does a leg wound make you faster? I just want to get through here quickly. Really? I mean, it seems pretty calm, apart from... Wait, wait, wait, no, no, no, no, no, no, it's not more children, is it? No, no, no, the necropolis is fine. I mean, well, obviously it's bad, it's horrible, but... So why the hurry? Where are we going?

Well... Come on, don't play coy. I'm not being coy. It's just, well... Wait. Wait, are you excited? A bit. Maybe. Why? What's next? I don't know.

In what way? All the ways. I don't know. In what way? All the ways. I don't know what's next. What? But like, you can see literally everything. I can, but it's a blind spot. No idea why. I didn't realise until we got closer and I was looking at our route, but I can't see the area after the necropolis. None of it. It's like the inside of the Panopticon, or wherever Georgie and Melanie are hiding. Or Annabelle. Or Annabelle. You think the others might be there?

I have no idea. It's a mystery. Just so you know, this is an adorable look on you, by the way. Yes, yes, yes. All right, then. Lead on, Scooby. Let's go solve a mystery. Actually, hold on. Of course.

Sorry to be a burden. It's fine, fine. Just stay in this avenue while you do it. I don't want to lose sight of you. Of course. Not when there's a mystery on the loose. Thank you. Of course. Not when there's a mystery on the loose. Thank you. Away and around and away they stretch,

row upon row of waiting granite and watching marble. The names are carved with steady-handed reverence, and the dates do not make sense but bite your tongue. Read the epitaphs quietly to yourself in a respectful, solemn whisper. Loving son. Noted philanthropist. Honoured hero. And do not question them out loud,

for these graves, they are not silent. They are listening. Stop a moment and see the stone angels perched above you, staring down from the harsh corners of each mausoleum roof, looking out over the avenues of dark and not quite moonlit paving slabs which buckle ever so slightly every step, as though the soil beneath is damp and yielding. Hungry. The angels have no expressions, their faces worn and pockmarked from the cold and vicious rain that finds the time to fall with disinterested cruelty at times upon their post.

But the swords that each one carries do not wear, nor rust, nor blunt. They keep their eager vigil, desperate for a comment, a word, a breath out of place against which they might strike. Upon each blade the words stand out in stark and silvered letters, Nihil Nisi Bonum. Walk faster now, pick up the pace, for not all the tombs are silent, not all the graves are at peace. Is that a voice calling sweetly from beyond the iron gate, telling you that it has something to show you, secrets that it wishes to share? Just knock and ask to enter. Or try your best not to hear, to think nothing but good and admirable thoughts

of those who wait in monuments to their own virtue. There now, a face, pale and stained with age and death and sin. No, not sin. Never sin. Misjudgment. Indiscretion, misunderstanding, never sin, never evil. It grins and smiles and nods its head with broken yellow teeth. It is a smile that wants you closer, wants you near, a bloated purple tongue that tries to whisper reassurance but can only gurgle promises that smell like sour fruit. How big is this place? How many miles of eerie edifice stand between you and freedom? Some doors lie cracked, shattered outwards, their occupants kept in check by ancient chains binding their brittle, bony limbs.

Don't get too close. Keep to the middle of the narrowing alley. The stench that rolls from these broken crypts is unlike anything you have ever known, like lakes of fly-blown blood left to bake in the unrelenting sun. Keep it to yourself, though. Don't mention it. No point making a scene. The angels wouldn't like it. Besides, those are the tombs with the longest epitaphs, so they must have been good people. Watch for the stones, the ones beneath your feet that sink and shift on the swampy ground. With every step their firmness seems more and more a question, and the cracks that cut across them grow deeper and deeper. Don't step on the cracks, for goodness knows what

will happen. And you are surrounded by goodness, are you not? Your steps are as quick as respect will allow, and echo dutifully down the avenues. How much further to the gates? How much longer must you watch your every thought, lest it bring a sneer to your lips the angels might take as scorn? It must be close. Simply turn at the next crypt and you should see it. Wait. No, that isn't right. There should be the gates, the threshold to leave these silent rows, but instead what rises in front of you is a house, tall and angular, with jagged peaks of darkened wood and windows from which no light escapes.

It calls itself a home, but it lies. The funeral home houses only the passing congregations of sycophants and weepers desperate to cleanse their own iniquities in the salt-tinged flood of gloating tears. You turn to walk away, to hurry back and disappear into the tombs that now seem almost welcoming, when behind you comes the inescapable, the inevitable sound of an old wooden door being opened. Come in, the funeral director intones.

The service is about to begin. You are expected. The faceless gaze of each sepulchre angel fixes itself upon you and you feel yourself turning back towards the house, though every muscle in your body screams at you to run. Instead you nod and apologize for your lateness. The angels look away, and you step across the threshold. The air smells of decay and lavender, and something else you can't quite place. The dust has settled over everything in layers so thick you dread to touch. Anything to rest even for a moment, so keenly aware of the stark imprint you would leave.

The marks of your presence so deep and clear. A sign of life amongst the judgmental dead. The funeral director does not comment upon your reluctance or care, though you know that nothing escapes his eyes. He leads you through the winding house towards the memorial room, the thick carpet crunching under your feet so loudly that it makes you wince, certain that it calls all attention to you. The director's steps are silent and dignified, the heavy fabric of his dark suit still and crisp as cold iron. The mourners are all lined up so very, very neatly, four chairs either side twenty rows

deep, each and every one in pitch-black funeral best, grey-haired heads bowed in respect, and a steady river of restrained tears flowing gracefully from under lace veils. There is no ragged breathing, no agonised wails of deep and wounding grief, only the respectful stillness of those who have lost a great figure, the best of them. At the end of the room is the coffin, polished to a dreadful shine. There is no picture, no photograph of a smiling face casting beatitudes from beyond the grave. But the coffin is open, and from inside you can see the faintest hint of its occupant. No, it can't be her. That's not right. It's not fair.

One hundred and sixty pairs of misty eyes follow your slow procession down the room, bile rising higher and higher with each row you pass. Fifteen left. You can make out her hair, still the cold grey you remember so vividly. Ten rows left, and you can see her mouth, those lips that hide the grin that now flashes through your memory. Five more, and you can see her eyes. Why are her eyes open? They are lustreless and clouded, but still contain the cruelty you saw when she held the knife. Now you stand over her. There is no mistaking who it is that lies within that softly padded box. There is no mistaking who it is that lies within that softly padded box. Beneath your threadbare suit and fear-stained shirt, the scars that lattice across your body ache and burn at the sight of the one who gave them to you. You feel the cross she once carved into your back open and begin to weep its own bloody testament. You need to leave, to turn and flee and find the end to this necropolis of polite denials and vicious civility.

Your vision swims as you turn from the face of death and find your arm grasped by the funeral director. His hand moves and you move with it, unable to stand against the unyielding strength of his simplest gesture. He places you behind the podium as the mourners stare at you, and you realise with a stab of agonised dread that they are waiting for your eulogy. Their faces alight with hungry grief. Their faces alight with hungry grief. If you would like to say a few words, the director commands. You want to scream at them, curse them all for hypocrites.

How can they not smell the blood she spilled, the path of scars and pain she left behind her every minute of her life. She was a monster, brutal and unrepentant. She was, you begin, heavy pause before your voice betrays you, the most kind and loving person I ever had the wonderful fortune to meet. Each life she touched was left brighter and more beautiful for her presence she was. An angel. The tears are flowing freely now as your eulogy continues. You cannot turn from the podium,

cannot stop the gushing flow of love and forgiveness you vomit out into the nodding crowd. Behind you, a dark shadow moves, a shape that seems to slither from the coffin. You watch it coming closer from the corner of your eye, but you cannot stop your kind words. Not even as the needle-sharp teeth of her corpse begin to dig into your shoulder. Right then. I'm done. Let's see what we've got. Is that...? Looks like it.

No, no... Oh, yes. It... can't be real. And yet. But it's... it's... Yeah. It's like something out of a National Trust brochure. I mean, I'm pretty sure it is National Trust.

It was, anyway. But you don't know for sure? No. I can't see anything about it. If I had to guess, Upton House, maybe? I mean, country houses and stately homes. Not exactly my specialist subjects. But it's... it's fine. It's better than fine. There are trees, look, like real trees.

It's beautiful. It's a trap. No, it might be a trap. We just don't know. John... It might be a trap. We just don't know. John. Yeah. We'll go around. No. No, no, no.

Let's check it out. I mean, obviously it can't be how it seems, but... Well... What if it is? Exactly. A beautiful oasis, untouched by the end of the world. It's got to be worth a shot, right? Thank you.

Don't fret it. It's just nice to see you like this. So, what now? I don't see a doorbell. I'm not even sure this door actually opens. It should. It's the front door. Besides, it's the biggest one, so if it's not...

I mean, maybe they expect you to come in through the cafe, or... I mean, they usually have a little gift shop or something. Okay, so where would they be? No idea. I thought you said you'd been here before. I said I might have been, and even if I have, I was twelve. I'll tell you what, it's more convenient when you know everything. Oh.

Guess I was wrong. Get ready. To do what? What do you mean, what? To smite them, if we need to. Wait, hang on, can you even smite people here? I don't think so. Oh.

Oh, no, er... Good morning. Er... Yes? Come on in. He's waiting for you. Oh. And who exactly... John, John. What?

I think, um, Annabelle. Annabelle Kane. Come on. He's very excited, you know. Ah. So do we follow, or...? I suppose. So, Annabelle, what are you playing at? What are you doing here? I really wouldn't worry about that. I'm just helping out around the place a little bit. Making myself at home. You know how it is.

John, I don't like this. You can relax, Mr Blackwood. You're safe here. I don't feel it. Not something I can help, I'm afraid. Though... John, do you feel... Do you feel hungry?

I, um... Actually, I was going to say I'm feeling really tired. Not surprising. When's the last time you slept? I don't know. I mean... weeks ago. Months maybe. Well there you go then. Just in here. Your guests are here, Michele. Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, Micaela Salaiza? The one and only. I must say I have been a... I did say this might happen.

You did, you did. Well, so much for my big reveal. Shame. feel shame. Ah well. We can talk after they've slept, I suppose. Ugh. And had a bath. And some food. No rush. We have all the time in the world. The Magnus Archives is a podcast distributed by Rusty Quill Thank you. It featured Jonathan Sims as The Archivist, Alexander J. Newell as Martin Blackwood, Chioman Walioba as Annabel Cain,

and Ray Chong-Ni as Mikhail Selesa. To subscribe, buy merchandise, or join our Patreon, visit RustyQuill.com. Rate and review us online, tweet us at TheRustyQuill, visit us on Facebook or email us via mail at rustyquill.com. Join our community on the Discord via the website or on Reddit at r slash The Magnus Archives. Thanks for listening. Hi everyone, Alex here. I'd just like to take a moment to thank some of our patrons. Brooke Autry, N. Birdie Birdson, Julia Reith, L. Hudson, Sydney Kaufman, Oliver Oil, Bookworm,

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