The Magnus Archives - MAG 2019 Liveshow

Episode Date: July 23, 2020

This show recording of the 'Anglerfish' (MAG001) and 'Do Not Open' (MAG002) statements was recorded live at the London Podcast Festival Presents... Audio Drama event, at King's Place, London, on 30th November 2019.Written by Jonathan Sims and directed by Alexander J NewallProduced by Lowri Ann DaviesEdited by Maddy Searle, Nico Vittese and Alexander J NewallPerformances:- "The Archivist" - Jonathan Sims - "Rosie" - Hannah Brankin- "Martin Blackwood" - Alexander J. Newall  - "Tim Stoker" - Mike LeBeauCheck 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: twitter.com/therustyquillREDDIT: reddit.com/r/RustyQuillEMAIL: [e-mail] Magnus Archives is a podcast distributed by Rusty Quill Ltd. and licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial Sharealike 4.0 International Licence  Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Dette er den første radio-ad du kan smelte. Den nye Cinnabon-pull-apart, bare på Wendy's. Det er ui, gui og bare 5 kroner for en liten kaffe hele dagen. Det er ekstra penger på Wendy's til mai 5. Terms og kondisjoner oppleves. Bye! Bye! So what am I supposed to do now? Go down the hill again? I'm getting a little panicked. See you later! Bye! Hi everyone.

Alex here with a short introduction to today's episode. This marks the first of the bonus content that we are dropping during this act break with more to come on our normal weekly schedule. The audio in today's episode was recorded at our first Magnus Live show as part of the London Podcast Festival Presents Audio Drama event in 2019. The events take place prior to the first episode of the Magnus Archives and can be considered canon. That's all for now. We hope you enjoy the episode. Rusty Quill Presents The Magnus Archives So this is your office.

Uh, thank you, Rosie. I thought Elias was going to show me down. Oh, Mr. Bouchard is busy but he said that he'll be down shortly to go over your duties, etc Well, I'm sure I can figure it out I was thinking of digitising some of the more commonly accessed statements

and then some general archiving Okay, sure I mean, it's not exactly the most regimented. Well, I think you have your work cut out. Yes, did the previous archivist... I mean... Well, Miss...

Miss Robinson was getting on a little bit, and it must have been very hard for her. Did you ever meet her at all? Not really a few times. I don't think she liked me much. No, but she... But she didn't really like anybody much, so I wouldn't take it personally.

She was a very polite woman. What actually happened to her, if it's not too insensitive a question? Oh, I don't think that's really my place to... I mean, there were a lot of rumours floating around research, obviously. According to them, she died at this very desk.

Oh. Right. Well, I mean, if it's a problem, I'm sure I can speak to Mr. Bichard. It's all right. I don't believe in ghosts. Right. Well, in that case, I suppose I should be getting on. I'm sure that Mr. Bichard will be with you shortly, so...

Yes, thank you, Rosie. Oh, do tell us thank you for the opportunity. Well, I'm sure you can tell him yourself. Well, good luck, head archivist. Right. Oh, no time like the present. Test.

Statement of... Statement of Nathan Watts regarding an encounter on Old Fish Market Close. Statement given April 22nd 2012. Statement begins. This all happened a couple of years ago so I apologise if some of the details

are a bit off. I mean I feel like I remember it clearly, but sometimes things are so weird that you start to doubt yourself. Still, I suppose weird is kind of what you guys do, right? So I'm studying at the University of Edinburgh, biochemistry specifically, and I was in my second year at the time this happened. It wasn't any sort of university accommodation that I was staying in at this point, and I was renting a student flat down in Southside with a few other second years. To be honest, I didn't hang out with them much. I took a gap year before matriculating and my birthday's in the wrong part of September, so I was nearly two years older than most of my peers

when I started my course. I got on with them fine, you understand, but I was nearly two years older than most of my peers when I started my course. I got on with them fine, you understand, but I tended to end up hanging out with some of the older students. That's why I was at the party in the first place. Michael McCauley, a good friend of mine, had just been accepted to do a master's degree in earth sciences, so he decided a celebration was in order. Well, maybe party isn't quite the right word. We just kind of invaded the albanac down on the Royal Mile and drank long enough and loud enough that eventually we had the back area to ourselves. Now, I don't know how well you know the drinking holes of Edinburgh, but the albanac has a wide selection of some excellent single malts, But the albanac has a wide selection of some excellent single malts, and I may have slightly overindulged.

I have vague memories of Mike suggesting I slow down, to which I responded by roundly swearing at him for failing to properly celebrate his own good news. Or words to that effect. Long story short, I was violently ill around midnight, and made the decision to walk the route home. It wasn't far to my flat, maybe half an hour if I'd been sober, and the night was cool enough that I remember having a hope that the chill would perk me up some. I headed for the Cowgate, and the quickest way to get there from the Royal Mile is down Old Fish Market Close. Royal Mile is down Old Fish Market Close. Now, I'm sure you don't need me to tell you that there are some rather steep hills in Edinburgh, but Old Fish Market Close is exceptional even by those standards. At times it must reach a 30 or 40 degree angle, which is hard enough to navigate when you don't have this much scotch inside you. And as I have mentioned, I had quite

a lot. So on reflection, it probably wasn't that surprising when I took a rather nasty tumble about halfway down the street. The fall wasn't as bad as it could have been, and by the time I got up, it was only shaken with some nasty bruises. I picked myself up as best I could, checked I hadn't seriously injured myself, no broken bones or anything, and decided to roll

a cigarette to calm myself. That was when I heard it. Can I have a cigarette? I was startled out of my thoughts by the words, as I thought I had been alone. Quickly trying to compose myself, I looked around, and I noticed a small alleyway on the opposite side of the street. It was very narrow and completely unlit, with a short staircase leading up. I could see a light fixture a little

way up the wall at its entrance, but it either wasn't working or wasn't turned on, meaning that beyond a few steps the alley was shrouded in total darkness. Stood there, a couple of steps from the street, was a figure. It was hard to tell much about them, as they were mostly in the shadows, though if I'd had to guess I would have said the voice sounded male. They seemed to sway ever so slightly as I watched, and I assumed that they, like me, were probably a little bit drunk. I lit my own cigarette and held out my tobacco towards them, though I didn't approach. And I asked if they were okay with a roll-up. The figure didn't move except to continue that gentle swaying.

Writing it down now, it seemed so obvious that something was wrong. If I hadn't been so drunk, maybe I'd have noticed quicker. But even when the stranger asked the question again, can I have a cigarette? Utterly without intonation, still, I didn't understand why I was so uneasy. I stared at the stranger as my eyes began to adjust. I could make out more details. I could see that their face appeared blank, expressionless, and their skin seemed damp and slightly sunken, like they had a bad fever. The swaying was more pronounced now, seeming to move from the waist, side to side, back and forth.

By this time I had finished rolling a second cigarette and gingerly held it out towards them, but I didn't get any closer. I had decided that if this weirdo wanted a cigarette, they were going to need to come out of the creepy alley and take one. They didn't come closer. Didn't make any movement at all except for that damn swaying. For some reason, the thought of an anglerfish popped into my head. The single point of light dangled into the darkness,

hiding the thing that lures you in. Can I have a cigarette? It spoke again in the same flat voice, and I finally realized exactly what was wrong. Its mouth was closed, had been the entire time. Whatever was repeating that question, it wasn't the figure in the alleyway. I looked at their feet, and saw that they weren't quite touching the ground. The stranger's form was being lifted ever so slightly and moved gently from side to side. I dropped the cigarette and grabbed for my phone, tried to turn on the torch.

I don't know why I didn't run or what I hoped to see in the alley, but I wanted to get a better look. As soon as I took out my phone the figure disappeared. It sort of folded at the waist and vanished back into the darkness as if a string had gone taut and pulled it back. I turned on the torch and stared but I saw nothing. Just silence and darkness. I staggered back up to the royal mile which still had lights and darkness. I staggered back up to the Royal Mile, which still had lights and people,

and I found a taxi to take me home. I slept late the next day. I'd made sure I didn't have any lectures or classes, that I had intended to be sleeping off a heavy night of drinking, which I suppose I was, although it was that bizarre encounter that kept playing in my mind. And so, after making my way through two litres of water, some painkillers, and a very greasy breakfast, I felt human enough to leave my flat and go to investigate the place in daylight. The result was unenlightening.

There were no marks, no bloodstains, nothing to indicate that the swaying figure had ever been there at all. The only thing I found was an unsmoked Marlborough red cigarette, lying just below the burned-out light fixture. Beyond that, I didn't really know what to do. I did as much research as I could on the place, and couldn't find anyone who'd had any experience similar to mine. There didn't seem to be any folklore or urban legends I could find about Old Fish Market close.

The few friends I'd told about what happened just assumed I'd been accosted by some stranger, and alcohol had made it seem weirder than it was. But I'd never had hallucinations while drunk, and there was no way this had been a normal person. But when I tried to tell them, they always gave me one of those looks, halfway between pity and concern, and I'd shut up. and concern, and I'd shut up. I never did find anything else out about it, but a few days later I saw some missing persons appeals go up around campus. Another student had disappeared. John Fellows his name was, though I didn't really know the guy and couldn't tell you much about him

except for two things that struck me as very important he had been at the same party as I was and as far as I remembered had still been there when I left and the other thing was that well on the photo they'd used for his missing persons appeal, I couldn't help but notice that there was a packet of Marlborough red cigarettes poking out of his pocket.

I haven't quit smoking, but I do find that I take a lot more taxis now if I find myself out too late. Statement ends. Hey, sorry, you haven't seen a dog, have you? I'm sorry, what? A dog, a spaniel, I think. In general, or...? No, in the archives. Why would there be a dog in the archives?

Oh, because, well... Who are you? Martin. Martin, I... Because I may have... let him in? What? Why? I didn't mean to, you know.

We were outside making friends, and then... I had to come in, but... My hands were full, and, you know, the door's really heavy. So I had to use my foot, and then he just sort of... Why were you coming into the archives? Oh, I work here. No, you don't. I requested Tim, and I requested Sasha, and you are neither.

Oh, you're Jonathan Sims, yeah. Mr. Bouchard said I'd be working for you. Well, he didn't tell me anything about it. He said that... Well, he transferred me from the library, so... So I'm your boss. I mean, I guess. Which means that, technically,

I have the power to dismiss you if this dog situation is not resolved immediately. I mean, yeah, probably. Oh, oh, yes. Right, yes, sorry. Sorry, I'll... Sorry. Sorry.

Well, that's not ideal. No. Statement of Joshua Gillespie regarding his time in possession of an apparently empty wooden casket. Statement given November 22nd, 1998. Statement begins. It started when I was in Amsterdam for a holiday with a few of my friends. Everything you're thinking right now, you're right. We were all early twenties, just graduated and decided to spend a couple of weeks going crazy on the continent, so you can almost certainly fill in all the blanks yourself. There were very few points where I'd say that we were all entirely sober, and even fewer where we acted like it. though I wasn't quite as bad as some of my friends, who had a

hard time handling themselves. This may have been why I headed out alone that morning. No idea of the exact date, but it was sometime in Midbay. The others were sleeping off their assorted hangovers, and I decided to head out into the beautiful sunshine of that Netherlands morning, and take a walk. Before graduating from Cardiff with the others, I'd been studying architecture, so I was looking forward to spending a few hours by myself to wander and really take in the buildings of central Amsterdam. I was not disappointed. It's a beautiful city, but I realised too late that I hadn't taken any map or guidebook with me, and an

hour or two later, I was thoroughly lost. I wasn't particularly worried, as it was still mid-afternoon at that point, and getting lost in the back streets had been kind of what I was trying to do. But I still decided I'd better make an actual effort to find my way back to where my friends and I were staying off Ellenstraat. I managed it eventually, but my inability to speak Dutch meant that I spent a good hour riding the wrong way on various trams, and by the time I got back to Ellenstraat, it was starting to get dark, and I was feeling quite stressed. So I decided to pop into one of the cafes to relax before joining up with my friends. I couldn't say for sure exactly how long I was in there, but I do know that it had gotten fully dark by the time I

noticed that I wasn't sat at my table alone. I've tried to describe the man who now sat opposite me many times, but it's difficult. He was short, very short, and I felt like he had an odd density to him. His hair was brown-ish, I think, cut short, and he was clean-shaven. His face and dress were utterly unremarkable, and the more I try to remember exactly what he looks like, the further it gets from my memory. To be honest, I'm inclined to blame the drugs. The man introduced himself as John and asked how I was.

I replied the best I could and he nodded, saying he was also an Englishman inside a foreign land. I remember he used that exact phrase, because it struck me at the time as very odd. He said he was from Liverpool, though I don't recall him having any sort of accent, and that he was looking for a friend who he could rely on for a favour. Now, high as I was, I got suspicious as soon as he said that last part, and I started to shake my head. John said it was nothing too onerous, just looking after a package for him until he had some friends pick it up, and that he would pay well. I thought that he was talking about smuggling, and I was about to refuse again when he reached into his jacket, I think, and pulled out an envelope. Inside was ten thousand pounds. I know, I counted it. I knew it was a stupid move, but I kept

remembering my friend Richard telling me how easy it had been to get a pound ofed through customs on his first trip to Holland. Holding that much cash in my hands... I said yes. John smiled, thanked me, and said that he would be in touch. He left the coffee shop and I immediately started panicking about what I had agreed to. I wanted to chase after him and return the money, but something weighed me down, kept me locked into my seat. I just sat there for a very long time. I don't remember much about the next few days except worrying when I'd see John again. I was careful not to spend any of the money he'd given me and had decided to return it as soon as he turned up. I'd say I had made a mistake,

and I couldn't take his money or look after anything for him. I tried to enjoy myself, but it was like this shadow hanging over me, and I couldn't stop thinking about it. I waited for days, right up until the end of our trip, but he never showed up. I obsessively checked my suitcase before boarding the plane home, just in case someone had snuck something into it and there was nothing new in there. I flew back to England with my friends still high, and £10,000 tucked into my coat pocket. It was surreal. It wasn't until almost a year later that I felt confident enough to actually spend any of the money. I'd moved down to work for a small architect's firm in Bournemouth,

on the south coast. It was an entry-level job, and the pay wasn't great, but it was the only offer I got in my chosen field, so I moved down there with the hopes of getting some experience, so I moved down there with the hopes of getting some experience and a better position in a year or two. Bournemouth was a decent-sized seaside town, though much less idyllic than I'd been assuming, but rents for a place of my own were a little bit out of my price range, given my starting pay grade. I didn't know anyone else down there and wasn't keen to share my space with strangers, so I decided to use some of the money I'd been given in Amsterdam the previous year. I reasoned they were unlikely to find me at this stage. I'd not given John any of my details when he spoke to me, not even my name. And if they hadn't been able to find me over the course of

the last year, it was doubtful they'd be able to track me here. Also, if it had been drug smuggling, as I suspected, £10,000 probably wasn't so much money to them that they'd track me this far over it. Also, and this, looking back, this sounds stupid, but I'd just grown a beard, and I thought it would be hard for anyone to recognise me as the same guy. and I thought it would be hard for anyone to recognise me as the same guy. So I spent a bit of John's money on renting a nice one-bedroom flat in the Triangle, near the town centre, and I moved in almost immediately. About a week later I was in my kitchen, cutting up some fruit for breakfast, and I heard the doorbell ring. I answered it to see two red-faced delivery men.

Between them, they carried an immense package, which they'd clearly had to maneuver up the narrow stairs of the building I lived in. They asked if I was Joshua Gillespie, and when I said yes, they said they had a delivery addressed to me, and pushed past me to place it in the hall. They didn't seem to be from any delivery company I knew, and they weren't wearing any uniforms. I tried to ask them some questions, but as soon as they'd placed the box on the floor, they turned around and walked out. They were both well over six feet tall and very imposing, so there was little I could have done to stop them leaving, even if I'd wanted to. tall and very imposing, so there was little I could have done to stop them leaving, even if I'd wanted to. The door slammed behind them, and I was left alone with this package.

It was about two metres long, maybe one metre wide, and roughly the same deep. It was sealed with parcel tape, and written on the top was my name and address in thick, curving letters. But there was no return address or postmark of any sort. I was starting to risk being late for work at this point, so I decided... I decided I couldn't bring myself to leave without seeing what was inside. And I fetched a knife from my kitchen counter and cut the tape keeping the box closed. Inside was a coffin. I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't that. My knife fell to the floor, and I just stared at it in mute surprise.

It was made of unvarnished, pale yellow wood, and had a thick metal chain wrapped around it which was closed at the top with a heavy iron padlock. The lock was closed but had the key sitting inside it. I started to reach for it when I noticed two other things on the coffin. The first was a piece of paper, folded in half and tucked under the chain which I took. The other was the presence of three words, scratched deep into the wood of the casket, in letters three inches high. They read, Do not open. I withdrew my hand from the padlock slowly, unsure what I was supposed to do. At some point I must have sat down as I found myself on the floor, propped up against the

wall, staring at this bizarre thing that had inexplicably turned up at my home. I remembered the piece of paper at this point and unfolded it, but it simply read, delivered with gratitude, J. Strange as it sounds, it was only then I made the connection with the man I'd met in Amsterdam. He told me he wanted someone to look after a package for a while. Was this the package he was talking about? Was I to be looking after a corpse? Who was coming to pick it up? When?

I called in sick to work, and just sat there, watching the coffin for what might have been minutes, or might have been hours. I just had no idea what to do. Eventually, I steeled myself and moved towards it, until my face was just inches away from the lid. I took a deep breath, trying to see if I could smell anything from inside. Nothing. If there was a dead body in there, it hadn't started to smell yet. Not that I really knew what a dead body smelled like.

It was early summer at this point, so that would mean they must have died recently. If there was a body in there at all. As I got up, my hand brushed the wood of the coffin and I realised it was warm. Very warm. Like it had been lying in the sun for hours. Something about it made my flesh crawl slightly, and I withdrew my hand. I decided to make a cup of tea. It was something of a relief, standing next to the kettle, as from that angle I couldn't see the thing out in the hall.

I could just ignore it. I didn't move even after I'd filled my mug, I just stood there, sipping my tea, not even noticing that it was still far too hot to drink comfortably. When I finally got the nerve to step back out into the hall, the coffin still lay there, unmoving. I finally made a decision and, firmly grasping the padlock, I removed the key and placed it on the hall table next to the door. I then took hold of the coffin and chain and started to pull it further into my flat. It was weird to touch it. The wood still had that unsettling warmth to it. But the chain was as cold as you'd expect from a thick piece of iron, and apparently hadn't taken on any of the heat.

I didn't have any cupboards with enough space to hold the thing, so in the end I just dragged it into my living room and pushed it up against the wall, as out of the way as possible. I cut up the cardboard box it had been sealed in and put it with the rubbish outside. And just like that, I had apparently started storing a coffin in my home. At the time, I think I assumed it was full of drugs, at least as far as I assumed anything about the situation. Why anyone would store something in such a noticeable way with a total stranger like me? These weren't questions I could even guess at an answer to, but I decided it was best to think about them as little as possible. For the next few days, I avoided my living room, as I found being so close to the thing made me nervous. I was also staying alert for the smell of any sort of rot, which might

indicate that something dead was inside the coffin after all. But I never smelled anything, and as the days passed I found myself noticing my mysterious charge less and less. About a week after it arrived, I finally started using my living room again. I'd watch TV, mostly, and keep half an eye on the unmoving casket. At one point, I got so cocky as to actually use it as a table. I was drinking a glass of orange juice at the time and absentmindedly placed it on top of the lid, not really realising exactly what I had done. At least, not until I heard movement from underneath it. I froze, listening intently and staring, willing myself to have been imagining things. But then it came again,

a soft but insistent scratching, just below where I had placed my glass. It was slow and deliberate, and caused gentle ripples to spread across the surface of my juice. Needless to say, I was terrified. More than that, I was confused. The coffin had been lying in my living room, chained and unmoving, for well over a week at this point. If there had been anything living in there when it was delivered, it seemed unlikely it would still be alive. And why hadn't it made any sound before, if there was something in there capable of movement?

I gently picked up my glass, and immediately the scratching stopped. I waited for some time, considering my options, before I placed it back down on the other end of the lid. It took almost four seconds for the scratching to start up again, now more insistently. When I took the glass away this time, it didn't stop for another five minutes. I decided against doing any further experiments, and instead made the very deliberate decision to ignore it. I felt at that point I neither needed to use the heavy iron key to open it and see for myself, or I needed to follow the gouged instructions and resolve myself to never look inside. Some might call me a coward, but I decided on the latter, that I would interact with it as little as possible while it lived in my house.

Well, I guess lived was the wrong term. I knew I'd made the right decision the next time it rained, and I heard the box begin to moan. the next time it rained, and I heard the box begin to moan. It was a Saturday. I was spending the day staying in and doing some light reading. I had few friends in Bournemouth. Something about having a mysterious coffin lying in my living room made me reluctant to make the sort of connections that might lead to people coming round, and so I spent most of my free time alone. It might lead to people coming round. And so I spent most of my free time alone. I didn't watch a lot of television, even before my living room was taken over by storing this thing,

so I now found myself sat in my room, reading quite a lot. I remember I had just started Michael Crichton's The Lost World at the time. And it started raining outside. It was a hard, heavy rain. and it started raining outside. It was a hard, heavy rain, the sort that falls straight down with no wind to disturb it, until everything is dark and wet. It was barely past midday, but I remember the sky was so overcast and gloomy that I had to get up and turn on the light.

And that was when I heard it. It was a low, gentle sound. I'd seen Dawn of the Dead, I know what the groans of the undead are meant to sound like, but it wasn't like that at all. It was almost melodious. It sounded like singing, if it was muffled by twenty feet of hard-packed soil. At first I thought it might have been coming from one of the other flats in my building, but as it went on and the hairs on my arm began to stand on end, I knew, I just knew where it was coming from. I walked to the living room and stood in the doorway, watching as the sealed wooden box contained continued to moan its soft, musical sound out of the rain. There was nothing to be done. I'd made my decision not to open it, and this certainly did not make me want to reconsider

that. So I just went back to my bedroom, put on some music, and turned it up loud enough to drown out the sounds. And so it continued for months. Whatever was in the casket would scratch at anything placed on top of it and moan whenever it rained. And that was that. I suppose it goes to show how you can get used to anything if you have to, no matter how bizarre. I occasionally considered trying to get rid of it, or finding people like you guys to investigate, but in the end, I decided that if... I decided I was actually more afraid of whoever was responsible for entrusting me with the coffin than I was of the actual coffin itself.

So I kept it secret. The only thing that worried me was sleeping. I think it gave me bad dreams. I don't remember my dreams, never have. And if I was getting nightmares, they were no different. I didn't remember them, and I certainly don't now. But I know I kept waking up in a panic, clutching at my throat and struggling to breathe.

I also started sleepwalking. The first time that happened, it was the cold that woke me up. It was the middle of winter, and I tend not to keep the heating on when I'm asleep. It took me a few seconds to fully process where I was. I was standing in the dark, in my living room, over the coffin. But what concerned me more about the situation was the fact that, when I awoke, I seemed to be holding the key to it in my hand. Obviously this worried me. I even went to my GP about it who referred me to the sleep clinic at the nearby hospital.

But the problems never recurred in a clinical setting. I decided to hide the key in more and more difficult to access places, but still I kept on waking up with it. And I was starting to panic. When I awoke one morning to find I'd actually placed the key within the lock and was, as far as I could tell, moments from opening it. I knew I had to find a solution. In the end, what I took to doing was perhaps a bit elaborate, but it seemed to work. I would place the key within a bowl of water and then put it in the freezer, encasing it in a solid block of ice. I still sometimes found myself trying to get to the key in my sleep, but the chill of the ice always woke me up long before I could do anything with it. And in the end it just became another part of my routine.

I lived like that for a year and a half. It's funny how fear can become just as routine as hunger. At a certain point I just accepted it. My first clue that my time keeping the coffin was coming to an end was when it began to rain and there was silence. I didn't notice at first as my habit at that point had been to put on the music as soon as the weather began to turn, and after a few minutes I realised that there wasn't anything to drown out. I turned off my music and went to check. The living room was silent. Then came a knock at the door. The sound was light and unobtrusive, but it rang out like

thunder in the quiet flat. I knew what I'd see as soon as I opened the door, and I was right. John and the two delivery men stood there. I wasn't surprised to see them, as I say, but they actually seemed quite surprised to see me. John had to take a second to look me up and down, almost in disbelief, and I asked if they had come to collect their coffin. He said that they had, and he hoped it hadn't been too much trouble. I told him where he could stick it, and he didn't seem to have an answer for that. He did seem genuinely impressed, however, when I got the key out of the freezer.

I didn't even try to thaw it. I was so eager to be rid of the thing and get it out of my life, I just dropped the bowl of ice on the floor and shattered it. I watched as John picked the icy key up, and I told them it was in the living room. I didn't follow them. I didn't want to see what they did with the coffin. I didn't want to see if they opened it. And when the screaming started, I didn't want to see who was screaming, or why. I only left the kitchen when the two delivery men carried the coffin past the door. I followed them down the stairs and watched in the pouring rain as they loaded it into a small van marked Brecon and Hope Deliveries. Then they drove away. There was no sign of John.

That was the last I heard of it. I got a new job and moved to London. And now I just try not to think about it too much. Statement ends. Ah! Ah! Ah, goddammit. Uh, yes, who... Who is it? Oh, Tim. Yes, who is it?

Oh, Tim. Yes, good. Hey, boss. You alright? Yeah, no, I... Bit of a rocky start. Some... technical issues. I was trying to do the Gillespie statement. Right.

Yeah. Oh, the Gillespie statement. That's a proper weird one, right? Uh, yeah. How so? Well, the guy was on his own for like the whole time he had that coffin. What? Alone how? Well, in the seven other flats that were in that block, there was no one else there. For the whole two years, he was just on his own.

That is weird. Yeah. I'm sorry, Tim. I interrupted you. Oh, yes. Hypothetically, what would you say if I said that there was a dog situation in the archives? I would ask if it was getting worse. Okay.

All right, cool. So, right. Now. Tim. Hypothetically. Tim. Yeah. Yeah.

There's a dog situation in the archives. There's a mess of the doggy variety. Right. I'm sorry. It's not your fault. Come on, let's deal with this before it escalates. Yeah, right. Oh, Tim, do you know if we have any better recording equipment?

My laptop's playing up. Oh, recording equipment. Oh, yeah. I think there are some old tape recorders in the storage. That could work. The Magnus Archives is a podcast distributed by Rusty Quill and licensed under

a Creative Commons Attribution non-commercial share like commercial license. This show was written by Jonathan Sims and directed by Alexander J. Newell. It has featured Hannah Brankin as Rosie, Michael LeBeau as Tim Stoker, Alexander J. Newell as Martin Blackwood, and Jonathan

Sims as the Archivist. And it was produced by Lorianne Davis. For more information, visit RustyQuill.com. Thanks. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Audible can take you places only you can imagine and whenever you want. On a run, doing errands, commuting or just relaxing at home. And it's not just audiobooks. Audible also gives you binge-worthy podcasts and exclusive originals

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It's ooey, gooey, and just five bucks for the small coffee all day long. Taxes extra at participating Wendy's until May 5th. Terms and conditions apply. Here are some podcast tips from Acast. Her kommer et podcasttips fra Eikast. Hei, Dana! Hei, Erika! Og sammen har vi podden Skitshowet. Hva er det? Neste blir noe for to av de influensere som har fikset podden.

Fortsatt bostaden som noe eierligens i Trondheim. Det er jo ikke noe hemmelighet, og det er ganske mye glem på Insta, så jeg føler at vi trenger podden for å ta det litt ned. Vi tar for oss hva vi har gjort den siste uka. Samtidig som vi tester nye ting, som for eksempel menneskehopp og kosmikk. Det er egentlig det. Så det man skal gjøre nå da, er å gå ned på huk igjen, for jeg får

faktisk litt panikk. Hør om du gidder! Bye!