The Magnus Archives - Rusty Fears 6 - Still Camp by Nicole Lark

Episode Date: December 5, 2024

This story is inspired by the prompt ‘frozen’. It is written by Nicole Lark and read by The Pit Below Paradise's Victoria Cheng.Once all six short horror stories have been released, there will be a public poll for listeners to vote for their favourite. The overall winner will get the opportunity to write a case that will be featured in The Magnus Protocol, so be sure to listen to every story and keep an eye out for the voting form in a few weeks’ time. Content Notes- Petrification- IllnessDirected by April Sumner and Nico VetteseProduced by April Sumner and Nico VetteseEdited, Music and SFX by Nico VetteseAdditional SFX by Meg McKellarMusic by Nico VetteseMastering by Catherine RinellaJoin our community:WEBSITE: rustyquill.comFACEBOOK: facebook.com/therustyquillX: @therustyquillEMAIL: [e-mail] The Magnus Protocol is a derivative product of the Magnus Archives, created by Rusty Quill Ltd. and licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial Share alike 4.0 International Licence.  Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Acast powers the world's best podcasts. Here's a show that we recommend. You can just, you have the capacity just to pull out information and just talk. Whereas I was like going, what am I going to say next? You have, you're the proper historian. I'd have a clue. I just come up with bad answers. Throughout history, the really interesting conversations have always happened over a drink. So pour yourself something suitable and join us at history's ultimate drinks party. I'm Henry Jefferies. And I'm Tom Barker Bowles.

Welcome to Intoxicating History, your invitation to the greatest bar in time. Acast helps creators launch, grow and monetize their podcasts everywhere. Acast.com Still Camp by Nicole Lark There is a figure in our camp. Its eyes aren't real, but I am certain every part of its gaze is seeping into my soul. It cannot move, cannot speak, but it calls to me and beckons for me to join it nonetheless. I ask God's forgiveness in wanting to accept its call, to give in and end all of this in quiet oblivion, but I do not know if I have the strength left in me anymore to do so. Whatever this is, it's already taken everything else.

I take my last moments to write you all a caveat, an act I beg not to be taken as superfluous. I only pray with shaky hand that the audience upon my letter heeds my warning and takes pity on us. We did not deserve this. We were just looking for a better life. We needed a better life. Joseph's crops were not doing well back in St. Louis, and no matter how many hours he spent tending to the corn and the rice, it only ever yielded just enough to feed ourselves and put clothes on our backs. So when Miss Josie entered our home to tell us about the great migration to the new state of Texas, of course her message came across as nothing but divine intervention. Allegedly, she and her husband were approached by the state.

They were offering a striking amount of land for a small sum to brave families that packed up their life to start one anew. Even with our current situation, I was still apprehensive at the notion of leaving. You all must understand, I am not the bravest soul, or even close to such a bold term. But times were tough. Young Matilda had just entered her twelfth year of age, and I couldn't bear the thought of her breaking her back in the fields along with her father to break even. She was such a gentle soul. Oh, Matilda. Many arguments between Joseph and I ensued after Miss Josie's appearance in our home,

I must confess. However, slowly but surely, I was convinced. As more people left the town of St. Louis in search of riches down southwest, it seemed foolish not to do the same. So, upon the break of May, we small three packed up our lives and loaded our possessions in the chuck wagon we had sold our acreage for. Meeting up at the town's edge with one Billy Preston and his arrangement of similar folk, we set out on our way to our new life. The party accompanying Mr. Preston, our leader, was quite peculiar indeed. A real band of mudsills. Over our many fortnights of travel, I acquainted myself quite well with a lot of them. There was Edith, Mahala, Dorcas, there was Hiram, a man Joseph became quite keen on,

along with Mr. Albert, and then there was Reuben Cookler. Now Reuben stuck out like a sore thumb to me, not by his spry figure or his general lack of possessions, but by his origins. He was much younger than the others, not older than mid-twenties, if I had to guess. But he was also traveling alone. A rumor had spread about saying he had run away, but the details were always different depending on who you asked. Some said he was escaping an arranged marriage. Others said he was running from the law, but he also could have just been blatantly stupid. The time our small band traveled for felt seemingly unending.

Flatlands as far as the eye could see stretched on forever. Occasionally we'd be treated by the presence of bison, something Matilda just marveled at, but otherwise nothing, minus the rhythmic swaying of the horses in time with the grass. It was even-tied by the time we happened upon the pond. The migrants, as they always did, unloaded their wagons and set up camp. The horses were watered, rations were distributed, and everyone set up their cots to rest. A fire was lit for supper. This night, it was cruel. It was watery and sloppy and it disgusted me so. I was more than fine sticking with the stale bread and crackers I had left on my person.

Joseph left to go pratter with Albert and Mr. Hiram Negren over supper, leaving Matilda to her lonesome, as was typical of the man. I made sure she had her fill and settled her down in her cot. As I turned to leave, I saw a rustling from beside the wagon closest to mine. It was Reuben. He smiled and ushered me over excitedly. As I approached, I couldn't help but be taken slightly aback. Outstretched in his hands lay a small silver fish.

He must not have been happy with tonight's carte de jour either, I remember thinking to myself, if he had the wherewithal to try and seize a fish. There's life in the water, he told me under hushed whispers. I politely said, yes, it appears so, seeing as he caught one of its occupants. He begrudgingly offered to share, but I could tell by his gaze that he had no sense of giving me any if I had said yes, which I had no intention of doing so anyway. He was relieved to hear my declination and ran off, chirk as ever, to fry up his secret catch.

That morning felt the same as ever. Matilda was up well before the majority of the lot, with only a few of the migrants busy snuffing out the fire and packing up the previous night's work. She was cavorting in the grass along with her friend Phoebe, one of the only girls her age on the journey with us. I had warned her not to stray too far from the camp, but she did so anyway, occupied with her youthful sense of play. I worried not, as I was keeping a close eye on them while I tended to my own early morning duties.

It wasn't until Phoebe tumbled and cried out did I intervene. Perhaps she got caught on a rock or saw a snake and tripped in her escape. Regardless, I and a few others briskly ran to their aid. It wasn't until I got closer did I realize my Matilda had not moved at all. Her gaze was fixed ever so solid on something in the grass. Something that wasn't Phoebe, nor rock, or predator. It was metal. Pushing past the grass, I saw a man. It wasn't even a stranger. It was a statuesque recreation of one of the men on our journey. Lyman, I believe his name was. He was beautiful, and for a moment I wondered who could have crafted such a work of art in such little time, and with what materials. But then the logistics of the creation seemed unimportant in my mind as I gazed further

upon him. His form was bald in a stunning display of the fetal position. He was as if his maker was rushed in its construction, not being able to stretch the form as much as they would have liked, instead focusing on preserving his details in a round, perfect lump. But he was flawless. The only thing that drew me back was the horrid, petrified look on his face. He looked like he had seen hell.

I did not touch him, but if I did, I would not be surprised to find him cold as a wagon tire. It unsettled me as much as it intrigued me. My fixation broke as Matilda tugged at my arm. In my trance, I hadn't noticed poor Phoebe being carried back, one arm under her legs and another supporting her back. Turning my eyes back towards the effigy, I inwardly said my goodbyes as I turned tail and followed. The morn continued as such, cleaning the wagons, washing the dishes, fetching water for the next leg of our journey. I was tending to the rip in Joseph's trousers. I was near finished when a rustle revealed the approach of Albert, the man Joseph had

taken such a liking to on our quest for new life. The Evercross Joe was even more so now than usual. Bill Preston, he had told me, was looking for Ruben Cookler. He had failed to check in and was nowhere to be seen. I took a breath. You know the man was truly aggrieved when he referred to their names in full. I exacerbated that I had not seen the boy since last night, but offered to fix his flint and be of help in his search. With a wordless huff, Mr. Albert Mesnier left my company. His words stuck with me, though, and with my chores near completion, I fixed upon finding the young man myself.

My encounter with Reuben last night had recalled itself in my mind, and how his gaze turned towards the water. Without deliberation, my feet guided themselves to the mirror. The surface glinted with the rising sun, along with something more blinding me slightly. I turned to the rocks, and there, as I may have known deep down, he was. He was peaceful, nothing sharing his company besides a few fish bones. But as I gazed upon his form, every ounce of my soul wished I had not. Realization set in me, the true nature of this place. As I stared at the firm, gray face of Reuben Cookler, I was overcome with a knowing. It was not of fear or uncertainty, but of undeniable doom. I thought back to the form I dared call an artwork in the field, then to Ruben, metallic as he was

before me now. The camp was cursed, and a force beyond me new to blame was the water. That night was when it started. All cheeriness from the remainder of us was lost over the anticipation. Those who had not seen the sculptures still felt it, the lingering sense of termination. Some's veins were already starting to appear darker under their flushed skin. Others began clutching their stomachs as the situation became alive to them. There wasn't even any energy left in us to panic. That was all stolen by the statues, the physical reminders of our doom. Everything was still.

Then, all at once, the silence was ripped by a blood-curdling scream from one of the men. Even now, I cannot remember the man's name, a now lost legacy I am forever ashamed of. His scream was like nothing I had ever heard before. It was like someone was filling his throat with the sun. His desperation was shattering. The bootle of us could only watch as the poor traveler's gait contorted violently, bucking as the excruciating pain of solidness overcame him. It was slow, and his voice was screaming even after he fell silent. His fingers twitched in a final attempt at life, and then he was petrified. His eyes still glinted, but there was no longer any soul left in them.

What remained was a silhouette of a life, outstretched dreadfully towards its peers. I thought to flee then, to escape this place with my family, but it was then I realized I had not seen the horses at all that day, and they had been thoroughly watered. One by one, all of us went through the same gruesome transformation. Horace. Benjamin. Laura. Mrs. and Mr. Cost. Mr. Preston, Joseph, Albert, and Hiram.

My poor Matilda. Our numbers dwindled until all that was left was the stars, myself, and the water. I am sorry, Joseph, for the fate that fell upon you. The risk you took for your family ended in vain, and even in retrospect I find it hard to hate you for it. Mr. Preston, who I am certain whose intentions were pure, you will never enjoy your large promise of Earth, nor will the people you guided take up life in your destination.

Ruben, the mystery man whose life ended young by an adequate meal, whatever brought you to our posse, I am without doubt that the life you left behind was better than your fate. And to my poor, sweet Matilda, you did not deserve any hell this world laid upon you. I only pray you are up in heaven and not trapped in the metallic prison that now makes up your being. I beg you cannot hear me with those glossy ears of yours. I do not want the final sounds you hear to be my sobs. And with this, I am on the brink of death. I am without food, without horse, and the only water that should nutrify me instead will only quicken my end. As my final words are transcribed for you all upon my pen, the shape of my death is unknown still to me.

The stars are fading as I write, and the small spray of white reflecting off the still forms of my peers is slowly being replaced by a soft, burning sunlight. It is infinitely quiet, save only for my tears, and even yet my fallen family calls for me to join them, to be still. With this, my finders, I only ask that you heed my warning. There is a curse within this water. Do not touch it. Do not drink it. Do not bathe within it, for it shall be still.

Yours forever, Elizabeth Hughes. There is a figure in our town. Their clothes are solid and their hat brims will buckle to no fierce rain or wind. Their tiny bubble of clearing is encased, untouched within the bustling marketplace. Cars methodically pass by, not even out of earshot, but the molded iron remains lifeless to their incessant noise. Occasionally, a family will enter its enclave. A boy or girl may roll in the grass, or a family of four might pose for a photo in front of the man clutching the canteen. The fountain in the background gurgles steadily amongst the rumbling of the tarmac.

They look at the photo. That one's going in the Christmas card. A lone matron approaches one of the statues. She had marveled at the craftsmanship of the father and his child. She had already appreciated the figures of men sitting around the fire and the lad laying placid by the water side. This time, the sculpture was of a woman, seemingly forgotten by the world. She gently strokes the uncanny iron hair with a single finger. The metal is unexpectedly cold, even with the soft heat of the sun upon her. Among the gray of her arm, the young woman spots a faded yellow, a message.

She unfolds to read as the world around her obscures itself like a turned lens. The land is still, minus the rhythmic swaying of the grass in nearby, and a silver fish swim in the pond. The Magnus Protocol is a podcast distributed by Rusty Quill and licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial Share-Alike 4.0 International Licence. To subscribe, view associated materials 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. Thanks for listening.