The Magnus Archives - MAG 26 A Distortion

Episode Date: July 6, 2016

Case #0160204Statement of Sasha James, assistant archivist at the Magnus Institute, London, regarding a series of paranormal sightings.…If you have any questions for Jonathan Sims or the rest of the team at Rusty Quill visit our forums at www.RustyQuill.com and post it to the dedicated thread. We will be hosting an interview at the end of season one and all the best questions will be read on the recording!Be sure to subscribe using your podcast software of choice to get every episode automatically downloaded to your device. Visit www.RustyQuill.com/subscribe for quick and easy links. It’s more convenient for you and really helps us out.Like what you’re hearing? Let us know.Find ad-free episodes and bonus content on our Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/rustyquillCheck out our merchandise available in our official stores:RedbubbleTeepublicCrowdmadeYou can subscribe to this podcast using your podcast software of choice.Please 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: @therustyquillTHREADS: @rustyquillukINSTAGRAM: @rustyquillukEMAIL: [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.

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Know your risks. Visit heartandstroke.ca. Rusty Quill Presents The Magnus Archives Episode 26 A Distortion Are you sure you're alright to do this now? You can take a few days off to recover if you need. No, it's fine. Tim's getting me a coffee, and I'd rather get this down while it's still fresh in my mind. Besides, you didn't give Martin any time off when he had a bad experience. Martin had to start living in the archives. I mean, I could hardly give him a holiday in the office.

Anyway, he wasn't injured. It's just a scratch, John. I'll be fine. Can we begin? Okay. Statement of Sasha James, Assistant Archivist at the Magnus Institute, London, regarding... Let's just call it a series of paranormal sightings. Statement recorded direct from subject, 2nd of April, 2016. Right. Well, I'm sure you know I was sceptical about how dangerous this Jane Prentiss was when you first suggested Martin stay in the archives.

I mean, it's not that I didn't believe him about what happened, it just seemed, well, Martin is a great researcher, but his self-preservation instincts are not the strongest. And to be frank, I thought that if this Prentiss were a danger everyone seemed to think, then he'd almost certainly be dead. Don't get me wrong, I mean, I've read the same statements and profiles as you, so I know how many people have died because of her. What was it, six hospital staff when she was first admitted? Six from colonisation and a seventh with a broken neck from her escape.

and a seventh with a broken neck from her escape. But that was two years ago, and whatever she is now, it sounds like her condition is degenerating. I just wasn't sure how much damage she'd still be capable of. So I guess I didn't take as much care as I should have when I was coming into the Institute yesterday. The thing is, I'm still not sure how much of a threat she is. I've seen plenty of those silver worm things squirming about outside, same as you,

and that made a point to step on them every time. What happened just made things more complicated, I guess. I'm not really sure what to think I'll start with the first thing I noticed I live up near the Finsbury Park and my building is old Victorian I think and though it's been repaired and maintained quite well it's got all sorts of strange little quirks one of these is the windows the actual windows in the flats are fine but the stairwell they have slightly warped glass where the windows have those little bubbles. Looking down on the street below can be a bit strange as the glass bends the light and distorts whatever's below it. I never really paid much attention to it until a few days ago but it's not a new thing.

It was the day before yesterday when I first saw it. When I'm heading down the stairs in the morning, I sometimes like to spend a few seconds looking out of the window at the people on the street below. I'll move my head so that I see them through the warped glass, and they'll distort like a funhouse mirror. It's a bit daft, but I have a pretty dreary commute down to Victoria, so I take my fun where I can get it. Well on that morning I paused before the window and noticed one of the warp figures below was off, slightly.

It looked too tall, the limbs and body were very thin and almost wavy, like they didn't have any structure or bones in them. I couldn't make out a face, but it was the hands that were most bizarre. They seemed to be stretched and inflated by the distorted light until they were almost the size of the rest of the torso. Their fingers were long and stiff and seemed to end in sharp points. It stood completely motionless and I could feel it staring at me. Moving my head to the side, I saw that the actual person I had been looking at was a large man with long blonde hair. He was neither stood still nor facing me, instead moving around the display of the flower shop opposite my building.

Nothing about the guy seemed especially out of place, but I made a mental note to keep a lookout for him. I checked again through the bubble of the bended glass, and again I saw that tall figure with its limp arms and huge hands. Now, you know me, John. I'm not exactly the bravest person in the world. I generally avoid horror and I tend to stay off roller coasters in the rare situation I have a chance to ride them. So I was surprised as anyone that this undeniably sinister figure wasn't causing me more distress. I mean, I was a bit nervous, sure. I've never had any direct experience with the supernatural before, and the more I looked and checked and double-checked, the more sure I was that supernatural was exactly what it was. To be honest, I was surprised how quickly I accepted that. I've always considered myself a bit of a sceptic, and until recently I'd have said working at the Institute only made me

more so. Anyway, I watched it for about ten minutes until the blonde man brought a small bunch of lilies and walked away. Once he was gone, the distorted figure with the long hands disappeared as well. I headed down into the street and over to the flower shop. The woman working there gave me a bit of a confused look when I asked if there had just been a tall blonde man in her shop. She said yes there had, and no she hadn't noticed anything strange. And was I looking to buy some flowers? I was quite confused myself, and on a bit of an edge when I left. I was already late for work though so I decided to ignore it and just keep an eye out.

Sure enough it wasn't too long before I saw him again. There's a small cafe I generally pop into when I head to work in the morning. I love the institute's building of course, it's beautiful but from a money point of view I really wish it wasn't in Chelsea. Everything round here is so expensive. I generally walk down from Victoria Station. It's a long walk, but quite pretty, and it gives me a chance to pick up a coffee on the way. As I said, I was running late that morning, so I was a bit conflicted about whether to get one, but as I looked in the window, I saw a familiar figure at one of the corner tables. one, but as I looked in the window, I saw a familiar figure at one of the corner tables. Again, the blonde guy wasn't looking in my direction, nor did he seem to give any indication that he was aware of my existence. He was there, though, and I was on the verge of walking

in and confronting him when I noticed the time and decided getting to work was more important. Besides, what's that old saying? Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, three times is enemy action. I decided that if he turned up a third time, then I would ask him something. I don't really know what I was planning to ask him. Are you secretly a monster? Probably would have been a great opener. When I got here, I realised I needn't have worried so much about the time. You were having some argument with Tim about... Oh, who's that architect he's obsessed with?

Robert Smirk. Yeah, that's the one. So I was starting to regret not getting a coffee and talking to tall, blonde and monster, since it didn't seem like I'd have missed much. I got on with my work, did some filing, cross-checked a few statements with police incident reports. I mean, I guess I don't need to tell you what a day working the archives entails. It was a quiet day, aside from when Martin thought he saw one of those silver worms and we spent half an hour checking for it.

Yes, I remember. Come on, it's not his fault he's being stalked by some weird living hive. I know. But it would have to have been Martin, wouldn't it? I mean, anything goes wrong around here it always seems to happen to him. Anyway, we're getting off topic. Why didn't you report this? Seriously? If a member of the public came in, you would have torn that statement to shreds. No, I figured I'd get more evidence, or it wasn't worth mentioning. Nothing else had happened until I left work. It must have been about half past six, so the sun was just about starting to go down, and I headed back up towards Victoria. The first thing I noticed out of the ordinary

was that the cafe was still open. Normally they shut up about six o'clock, but the lights were on and the door was open. I couldn't see anyone behind the counter though, and there was only one customer. He sat there in the exact same position he'd been in that morning, drinking what could easily have been the exact same coffee. I looked around to see if there was anyone else who could confirm what I was seeing. The street was empty, but as I looked, a car drove past. seeing. The street was empty, but as I looked, a car drove past. In the curving glass of its tinted windows, I saw him there, the weird, distorted body, rail thin and limp, the hands huge and sharp. And then the car passed on, and I turned back to see a normal-looking man. But now, for the first time, he was looking at me. He gestured to the chair across from him, clearly inviting me inside.

I don't know why I wasn't more scared going in there, but I wasn't. My curiosity apparently conquered my nervousness. He didn't speak when I sat down, and I saw his coffee cup was empty. Whatever was inside had dried up hours ago. He seemed to be waiting for me to ask him a question. So I asked him what he was. He laughed at this, the first sound I'd heard him make, and it sounded unnatural, like he was laughing very quietly, but someone had turned up the volume so I could hear it. He said it didn't matter what he was laughing very quietly, but someone had turned up the volume so I could hear it.

He said it didn't matter what he was, that he couldn't describe it even if he wanted to. What was the phrase he used? How would a melody describe itself when asked? This put my back up a bit, to be honest, and I told him if he was going to talk in cheap riddles I was just going to leave. He actually apologised, told me I could call him Michael. I didn't want to call him Michael, it didn't seem to fit somehow and the way he said it made me think that it definitely was not his name. Still, it wasn't like I had any other name for him. No, not for him. For it.

It sat there, clearly waiting for me to ask another question. So I did. I asked it what it wanted and was told that it wanted to help. Help? With what? That's what I said. Did it want to stop Jane Prentice? It laughed that weird laugh again and told me that I had no idea what was really going on.

It didn't sound like it had any intention of telling me though. It just seemed like it was amused by my attempts to understand. Then it said it didn't care if I or my companions lived or died, but that the flesh hive was always rash. It said it wanted to be friends. When it said that, it put its hand in mine and it may have looked like a human hand but it was heavy. It felt like a wet leather bag full of heavy stones, sharp stones. I pulled my hand away quickly and got up to leave. By this point I was just about sick of this weird thing that looked like a person but was not a person and talked in riddles. It made no move to stop me as I headed towards the door. As I was about to exit though, it called after me and said if I was interested in saving your life, it would be waiting at Hamwell Cemetery.

Sorry, saving my life? Yeah, it called you by name. You and Martin and Tim. That's unsettling. It really was. At the time I just tried to ignore it. I went home and I got as much sleep as I could. I don't know if you noticed how tired I was yesterday, what with Tim's April Fool's joke and everything. Don't remind me. Well, I was a bit of a mess. I checked the cafe on the way in and on the way home. I even went down there on my lunch, but Michael wasn't there. Part of me wanted to tell you about it immediately to make a statement but even if you believe me I knew you'd try and talk me out of going to Hamwell Cemetery

and I just about made my mind up to go. I didn't know if what Michael had said was a threat or a warning or just a lie but I decided I couldn't take the chance, so I went to the cemetery. The sun was starting to go down when I got there, and the gates of the graveyard were lit with a bright orange of the dying light. It had been raining earlier that day, and the pools of water reflected the vivid colours of the sky. Hanwell is an old cemetery, and past the walls I could see the weathered old gravestones, standing silent. As it turned out, I didn't have to go inside.

Michael was waiting for me next to the tall iron gates when I arrived. I caught a glimpse of its reflection in one of the deep pools of rainwater, and shuddered as I saw it again, the warped body and swollen, bony hands. It didn't say anything when I arrived. It just nodded at me to follow. I have no idea how long it stood there waiting for me. I expected to go into the graveyard, but instead,

Michael started walking down the road towards a nearby row of houses. The sign on the road said, Azalea Close. Most of the buildings were in good repair, but there was one at the end that looked abandoned. It might have been a pub at one point, but now all the windows were boarded with metal sheets and covered with dirt and graffiti. The door, however, was open and swinging gently.

Michael went inside, clearly expecting me to follow. So I did. Inside was dark and dusty. I was annoyed with myself that I hadn't thought to bring a torch, but just enough of the setting sun came through the door for me to see by. It clearly had once been a pub, and the bar appeared to be intact, though riddled with woodworm. Sitting on top of it was what looked like a builder's kit

with a toolbox and a small fire extinguisher. I was just about to ask Michael why we were here when I heard it. A low, wet groan coming from the far end of the room where the light didn't reach. It sounded like someone in a great deal of pain. I walked towards the noise. As I got closer, my eyes began to adjust and I saw the floor was covered in pale, writhing shapes. I had to listen to Martin's statement after he recorded it, so I knew what to expect. But hearing about something doesn't even come close to seeing it, to smelling it.

I expected to see what Martin described, a squirming mass that was once Jane Prentiss, but the figure slumped against the wall looked like it was once a man. The worms wriggled in and out through the holes in his skin. The flesh hive, Michael had called it, and the silver things formed clustered knots where his eyes used to be. I couldn't help it. I gasped. It wasn't a loud sound, and given how sick the whole situation made me feel, I think

I actually was quite composed. It was loud enough, though. The head snapped around to face me, dislodging a small cascade of twisting shapes. The mouth opened as he tried to scream, but that wasn't what came out of his mouth. The worms also seemed to have taken notice and began to move towards me at an alarming speed. I backed away, but slipped on a piece of loose wood and fell into the bar. I glanced desperately at Michael, but it just watched me, its face unreadable. I started to try and stamp on the worms as they approached, but there was just too many of them. Staggering to my feet, I felt my

hand come to rest on something cold and metal, the fire extinguisher. Without thinking, I pulled the pin out and squeezed the handle. A cloud of gas shot out, and to my surprise, the silver worms began to shudder and recoil, shriveling and dying. I began to walk forward, catching every last one in the jet of gas. Finally, I found myself standing over the mass of pitted and hollow skin that was once a man. He shuddered violently as the gas engulfed him and then lay still.

I was breathing heavily, and the CO2 from the fire extinguisher was making me feel lightheaded. For some reason, I felt like I should check his pockets. They were empty except for a wallet. It was stained with blood and other substances, but the name on the driver's licence was still readable. Timothy Hodge. was still readable. Timothy Hodge. As I stood there, staring at the wallet, I felt a sharp pain in my right arm. I looked up to see Michael reaching into my shoulder. Its fingers were long and distorted as they reached through my skin, cutting it like paper. I screamed. After a few seconds it withdrew its hand. Held there was a single silver worm wriggling pathetically in its grip. I hadn't even felt the thing

burrowing into my arm. After that it's all a bit of a blur. I remember I was going to phone the police, but Timothy Hodges' corpse was gone and I was worried about trespassing, so I just sort of wandered away. Michael or whatever it was had gone as well. Eventually I found my way back to the Institute where I must have woken up Martin and, well, here we are. Yes, I suppose we are. So, what do you think? I, uh... I don't really know. We can look into it more later. I should really quit, you know. We all should.

I don't think this is a normal job. I don't think this is a safe job. You're probably right. Do you want to quit? No. No. I'm just too damn curious, I suppose. You?

No. Whatever's going on, I need to know. Get some rest. Statement ends. Obviously there is little we can really do to follow up Sasha's experience. If it was any of the others, I might have cause to doubt, but she has always been the most level-headed of the team, and if she says that this is what happened, then I believe her. This does at least explain what happened to Timothy Hodge, whose disappearance shortly after making his statement in late 2014 has been

something of a concern since I discovered it. It seems odd how different the effect of Prentiss' infestation was on him and Harriet Lee, but without more information I don't have a working theory on why that might have been. The thing that most disquiets me about Sasha's statement is this Michael. She seems pretty convinced that he was not human, at least not in the conventional sense. Almost every statement I've catalogued has engaged with the paranormal in some form of antagonistic relationship. The idea that there are things out there like that that want to help us. For some reason, that makes me more uncomfortable than the worm-infested creature stalking the Institute.

Sasha has taken a few days off to recuperate, and I'm having a word with Elias about getting some extra CO2 fire extinguishers for the archive. Recording ends. Murray Porter International License. Today's episode was written and performed by Jonathan Sims. It was produced by Alexander J. Newell, Mike LeBeau, and Murray Porter, and directed by Alexander J. Newell. To comment on episodes, make donations, and view links, images, videos, and show notes, visit RustyQuill.com. Rate and review us on iTunes, visit us on Facebook, tweet us on Twitter at TheRustyQuill, or email us at mail at rustyquill.com. Thanks for listening. To be continued... has everything you need. Audible is the leader in audiobooks, so you'll always find the best and freshest selection of mysteries and thrillers to choose from. Sometimes you just want to get lost in a classic whodunit, and sometimes you want to get wrapped up in a twisted new mystery

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