The Magnus Archives - MAG 98 - Lights Out

Episode Date: March 22, 2018

#8640514Martin Blackwood, Archival Assistant at the Magnus Institute, recording statement number 8640514, statement of Doctor Algernon Moss, given May 14th 1864.Content Warnings for this episode are at the end of the show notes.Thanks to this week's Patrons: Emma Bogan, Jon, Victoria Wetherington, Jack Merryman, Alexandra Sipe, Nadia Heller, Charlotte, Steven Gilbert, Internaut, Maz DixonIf you'd like to support us, head to www.patreon.com/rustyquillEdited by Elizabeth Moffatt, Brock Winstead & Alexander J Newall.Tim Stoker is played by Mike LeBeau, Elias Bouchard is played by Ben Meredith, Martin Blackwood is played by Alexander J Newall, Melanie King is played by Lydia Nicholas, PC Basira Hussain is played by Frank VossSound effects for this episode provided by qubodup, SunnySideSound & previously credited artists via freesound.org.Check out our merchandise at https://www.redbubble.com/people/rustyquill/collections/708982-the-magnus-archives-s1You can subscribe to this podcast using your podcast software of choice, or by visiting www.rustyquill.com/subscribe.Please rate and review on your software of choice, it really helps us to spread the podcast to new listeners, so share the fear.Content Warning for:Body horrorPoisoningReported violence to childrenSelf-harm Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

This is the first radio ad you can smell. The new Cinnabon pull-apart only at Wendy's. 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. Hi everyone, Ben here. I'd just like to take a moment to thank some of our patrons. Emma Bogan, John, Victoria Wetherington, Jack Merriman, Alexandra Seip, Nadia Heller, Charlotte, Stephen Gilbert, Internaut, Maz Dixon. Thank you all. We really appreciate your support. If you'd like to join them, go to www.patreon.com forward slash rusty quill and take a look at our awards. our rewards.

Rusty Quill Presents The Magnus Archives Episode 98 Lights Out ¶¶ Oh. Oh. Sorry, I didn't know you were here. No, it's alright. Kind of glad, to be honest. Need a distraction. Got another statement

to record. Still doing those? Yeah. Yeah. I did ask Elias if I could stop. And he said no for a mysterious reason? I don't know. I mean, he kind of explained, I think. John's too inconsistent

at the moment. He needs to make up for the shortfall, which I guess means me? Unless... No. He did suggest I try to get you involved, so... And I suggest that he not be a scary magic psychopath. Whoops. Too late.

Yeah. Sorry. No, I get it. They're not exactly much fun. Look, it's not that. I... This place is evil, Martin. And I think doing what it wants probably makes us evil.

And it wants those things to be read. I mean, I'm not going to stop you, but at the same time... I get it. Look, have you talked to John about them? Um, not... I don't know, he always gets so weird about the statements, and I... I guess I... I didn't want to make him jealous. Jealous? I don't know. Sort of. I mean, look, it didn't come up, alright? Have you seen him since?

Kind of. We tried to talk, but he reached for that... He wanted to turn on his recorder. I freaked out a bit, and I said some stuff. If he wanted to talk, no tapes. I just... I just hate that thing. You? Yeah, we talked. Not long. He... I think he thinks that the distance keeps us safe, you know?

Like, if you make sure that we're not involved, we're somehow fine. He's an idiot. Look, we didn't know what that door was, and it still trapped us. Ignorance isn't going to save anyone. No, I mean, you're right, I guess. You know, we know about Sasha now, and he said he doesn't want to lose anyone else. Like, you know, like it's his fault. Isn't it?

No. No, it isn't. I mean, you heard Elias. We never really stood a chance. Yeah. Maybe. But Elias wasn't actually the one who offered me the job down here. No, I... Sure. Listen, I've got to go. I've got stuff to do. Sure. Yeah, you know what? A little privacy would be nice sometimes, okay?

Not everything's for you. You don't need to listen to everything that we... Alright, you know what? If you're that eager, fine, fine. Martin Blackwood, Archival Assistant at the Magnus Institute, recording No. 8640514. Statement of Dr. Algerman Moss, given May 14th, 1864. My story, such as it is, should not be long in the telling, though there is much you could understand of the circumstances surrounding it. I come to you not to wallow in my condition or pour out my soul like a papist in the confessional, but instead to request your assistance. I believe that Maxwell Rayner has at his disposal some unholy power that he has used to curse me and

cause my blindness, or, more precisely, to cause me to blind myself, for I shall not deny I did so willingly. For obvious reasons, my accusations have had me laughed out of most polite society. Not quite so polite when you're accusing someone of witchcraft, it would seem. I now ask the assistance of your institute in the hopes that you may be able to furnish some evidence or legal precedent that may assist me in taking action against my assailant, though I will admit my expectations for the latter are limited. Maxwell Rayner is an oddity. He claims to be an antiquities dealer from Africa and has, of late, become something of a darling in certain circles of Cambridge, though I have never heard him discuss either antiquities or his supposed homeland in

any real detail. His passion appears to be polar expeditions, and it's rare to attend any social gathering with him where the subject does not eventually come up. In particular, he seems to share that peculiarly specific mania regarding the fate of John Franklin and his lost expedition. I would assume he was intending to accompany such a party himself, were it not for the fact of John Franklin and his lost expedition. I would assume he was intending to accompany such a party himself, were it not for the fact of his own blindness. Indeed, the spectacle of his milky white eyes staring behind the weathered black skin of his face is an image so striking that, were I to be uncharitable, I might suggest had something to do with the readiness with which he acquires invitations and calling cards. He is led around by a young Arabian lad of ten or eleven, though the ease

with which he carries himself makes me suspect this assistance is an affectation rather than necessity. Both speak perfect English, with no accent I can recognise, though the boy rarely opens his mouth other than to alert Rainer of nearby goings-on. The circumstances of our dispute are, by some margin, the least interesting part of my tale. I outbid him at an auction. It was nothing of note, so I assumed, though perhaps I should have considered his particular obsession. It was an oilskin packet of documents, supposedly from the logbooks of Franklin's lost ship, the HMS Terror. I will admit a small interest in the matter myself, and my inclination turned to resolve when I saw how insistently Rayner was bidding on it, and I prevailed. He approached me afterwards to discuss the matter, and, perhaps if his tone had been less sharp, I might have allowed him to

observe the documents himself, but, as it was, I took some issue with his manner of address and curtly denied him. He was almost shaking with rage at this point, and I was momentarily concerned that the situation might descend into violence, when, instead, he leaned forward and whispered with an intensity I had never before heard in a human voice. Pray the sandman only brings you sleep. Now the fact that these words filled me with a stark terror that all but overcame my senses probably needs some explanation. My father was not a kindly man, you see. He came from a stern Christian tradition that would curdle the smiles of the simpering vicars you encounter these days. As a boy, I soon learned that the key to avoiding his ire was to avoid his attention altogether,

and never more so than after I had been put to bed. The nursery, you see, had its door in the middle of the passage between the drawing-room and my father's study, and, as such, he would pass by it several times a night. When I heard that heavy tread outside the door and the shadow passing study, and, as such, he would pass by it several times a night. When I heard that heavy tread outside the door, and the shadow passing over the threshold, I would lie there, and pray that I was quiet enough not to disturb his passage. If I was ever foolish enough to leave my candle burning, that I might read a few minutes more, I would hear the door open, and my father's voice in tone lights out. He had been a military man in his youth,

had my father, and he prided himself on handing down that discipline to me. Eventually, I was sent off to board at Repton School up near Manchester. The headmaster there, one John Hayrick McCauley, was apparently an old friend of my father's. It was a miserable place, over two centuries old and very much showing it. When I attended, there must have been barely fifty boys there, and no cricket pitch, racquet court, or any of the sort of facilities one might have expected, nor even a chapel. The few masters there taught Latin and Greek readily enough, but no French or music or natural science. Were it not for the relative freedom we had to rove around the nearby land and towns,

I would have had a solidly miserable time there. Even when we managed to play football, it was between crumbling arches loomed over by the jagged shadows of broken pillars. For all the life and vitality of the boys there, the place itself was decrepit, and sometimes I feel it resented our presence. I had one great friend during my time at Repton, a lad named George Denman. I'm sure you recognise the name given the recent speeches he's been giving on capital punishment. Well, I bet it never comes up in his parliamentary goings-on that he has the word FLY 1835 inscribed on his

left arm with India ink. F Fly was the nickname the Houndmaster at Repton gave him, you see, on account of his propensity for running, and he insisted on getting hold of a needle and tattooing it upon himself. This may give you an idea of the impetuous soul that possessed Denman as a youth. He was always going out of bounds or running off after curfew, and if the Masters caught him he'd be dragged back to bed. He slept in the bedroom adjoining my own, and whenever I heard the approaching footsteps of whichever master had caught him this time, I would instinctively blow out my candle, the old dread of my father returning in a rush. One day Denman pulled me to one side, eyes alive with mischief, and told me that he had returned from his holidays in possession of a positively ghoulish book.

It was a German tome titled Die Nachstücke, and contained several morbid tales by a man named Hoffman. I spoke little German, but Denman had enough of a grasp for us to puzzle through the stories together. The candles would burn low, as sentence by sentence we would decode that delightful unease that can be elicited by a properly macabre tale. The first of the collection was titled Der Sandman, and was what I believe would these days be referred to as a psychological story, dealing with the madness, trauma, and hallucinations of the protagonist, including the eponymous Sandman. What stuck with me, however, was a description given of a particularly horrific interpretation of the Sandman. Far from the

comforting friend of children he is so often portrayed as, he was rendered as quite the monster. I remember how the old maid of the story describes him quite keenly, as well as I remember my own dread at the passage Denman translated. He comes to children who don't go to bed, and throws his sand all into their eyes, and they start to bleed. He takes those fallen eyes up in his bag and carries them up into the crescent moon to his nest, where his own children feast upon them. They have crooked beaks like owls. All the better to pick the eyes of naughty human children. Dear Lord, just remembering it, even now, blind as I am, it still makes me shake. You can imagine the effect it had on me as a lad. Denman read us through the rest of the stories, but I could

barely pay attention, my mind fixated on that figure with its razor-sharp sand and long, hooked beak. Now, when I heard my masters walk past my room at night, I had no doubt as to the terrible shape they had taken. I had the most awful nightmares of the Sandman, stood in my doorway, out the most awful nightmares of the Sandman, stood in my doorway, motionless, intoning in the voice of my father, lights out. I had never told anyone of this childhood terror, not even my wife, so you may imagine the shock and confusion when I heard the words spoken by Maxwell Rayner. He actually looked almost surprised at my expression when I pulled back from him, clearly sensing he had struck a nerve. Perhaps he didn't know, and I was simply a victim of the most grotesque coincidence. Whatever the situation, I mumbled

my excuses and fled. I swear I could still feel those unseeing eyes follow me as I left the room, a grin of victory playing upon his lips. Perhaps you can guess what happened next. I don't know how vivid or nightmarish the other accounts you collect here might be. Certainly nobody else believes me when I speak of it, but the Sandman came for me that very night. He was nothing like the story. He was tall, yes, and thin, but the edges of him were impossible to see against the darkness he was part of. He had no beak, but coarse black sand trickled from his open mouth and hit the floor with a steady hiss.

His legs were long, but he crossed the room slowly, every one of his joints moving and twisting as he took step after torturous step. There was no sound at all. I looked to my wife, but she was locked in a peaceful sleep. A thin beam of moonlight was clearly marked upon the floor, where a gap in the curtains let it shine through. As the long, dark foot touched it, I watched that moonlight curdle like rancid milk. Wherever the Sandman touched, the world dissolved into a choking darkness. First my door, then creeping along the distance of our bedroom. Then the bed itself, then my Agatha,

until all that was left was me, the darkness, and the dreadful thing that wrought it. I do not know how I had come to the conviction that I was in the Sandman's sack. The idea simply arrived in my head, fully formed. I had been taken and would remain here, trapped forever in this lightless place, without even the faintest hint to taunt me. The darkness suppressed in and seemed to fill my mouth, my nose. But it did not touch my eyes, and then I made a choice. I still knew where the Sandman was, though I couldn't tell you how, and I decided that sightlessness was preferable to darkness. If you had asked me before, I would have told you that there was no difference, but I know better

now. There is far more to the darkness than simply being unable to see. I reached out to where I knew the thing's pouch would be, and seized a handful of sand. It was already slick with my blood as I lifted it and cast it into my face. I do not suppose I need to dwell upon the pain, but please know that I would sooner die than endure it again. It worked, though, inasmuch as I have remained solidly within this world. In some ways, I left my sight behind in that awful place, but I am well rid of it if it kept the rest of me here.

I only wish the last thing I saw, the final vision burned into my mind, had been anything other than that awful shifting phase. So, there is my story. I'm sure you'll agree that Maxwell Rayner is the clear architect of my misfortune. Now, how do you suppose I revenge myself upon him? End of statement. I think I might need to sit down. Oh, yeah, I am. think I might need to sit down. Oh, yeah, I am. Right. I don't... I'm not really sure if these are actually getting easier or harder. I mean, I don't feel... You know what? That's not important. I wish John kept better organised notes, though, because I know he's mentioned someone called Maxwell Rayner, but I cannot find much in the way of any infom...

Uh, Martin? Have you seen Elias? Oh, uh, no, but Tuesday lunch he normally meets with the library staff, I think. He'll probably be back in his office in an hour or so. Ah, thanks. Uh, are you alright? Oh, yeah, I've... yeah, I'm fine. You just look really pale. Are you all right? Oh, yeah, I've... Yeah, I'm fine. You just look really pale.

I was just recording one of the statements, and they... Ah, right, yes. They, um... They're a lot, aren't they? Sorry? I mean, they really take it out of you. I must have slept, er, 20 hours after I did one. Hang on. You recorded a statement? Yes. It was about a bed, funnily enough.

I don't suppose you'd mind doing some more? Elias wants to make up the shortfall while John's away and... Sure. No problem. Although I was just going to have a talk with Elias, so maybe I can convince him to cut you some slack. I wouldn't hold my breath. Right, fair. Listen, you really look like you could use a drink, and me and Basira were just about to pop out, so do you want to join us? It's like one in the afternoon. Are you afraid of getting fired? I'll get my coat.

Great. Just give me an hour or so. I just have a few things to take care of first. Oh, end recording. Knock knock. Ah, Melanie. Can I help you? Oh, not really. I just went out for some coffees and thought I'd get you one. How very thoughtful. I don't know how you take it, but John likes his black,

so I thought that was a fair assumption. It was. However, I think I'd rather you drink it. What? The coffee you brought me. Drink it. No, you're okay. I've got my own, actually. It's a decaf one. I assume you don't believe me then.

That murdering me would also kill you. I don't know what you are. It's not as good for disguising tastes as you might think. And it's even worse at disguising texture. Dissolved pills always leave such a chalky residue. Look, Elias, I... I assume this is your first time attempting to poison someone. Do you actually know how many painkillers it takes to kill someone,

or were you just hoping I'd take enough to get sick and you could finish the job? Manually. Why... Why bother asking, then? Why bother if bother asking then? Why bother if you know everything? I don't know everything, Melanie. Do you know how exhausting that would be? I'll tell you one thing I don't know,

and that's how to convince you that I'm trying to help. Honestly, you're one of the lucky ones. But not if we're all dead thanks to an overzealous attempt at independence. I don't need you to... Let's have no more clumsy assassination attempts, all right? We'll say no more about it. Consider this your first warning. Next time I shall have to escalate matters,

and that won't be a pleasant process for anybody. Understood? Melanie? Yes. Good. Did... did you turn that on? Oh, you get used to it. 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 and directed by Alexander J. Newell. To subscribe, view associated material, or join our Patreon, visit RustyQuill.com. Rate and review us online, tweet us at TheRustyQuill, visit us on Facebook, or email us at mail at RustyQuill.com. Join our communities on the forum via the website or on Reddit at r slash The Magnus Archives. Thanks for listening. To be continued... tongue-chilling and mind-bending stories, Audible 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 where the tension is high and you just can't stop listening until you find out what happens next.

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 with thousands of included titles you can listen to all you want. And more get added every week. So, if you're into secrets and suspense or you want to explore any other genre, remember, there's more to imagine

when you listen on audible your first audiobook is absolutely free when you sign up for a free 30-day trial at audible.ca this is the first radio ad you can smell the new cinnabon pull apart only at wendy's 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.