THE MAGNUS ARCHIVES #1 - Anglerfish - Horror Fiction Podcast

Rusty Quill Presents

The Magnus Archives

Episode 1:

Anglerfish

Test.. Test... Test...

1, 2, 3... Right.

My name is Jonathan Sims.

I work for the Magnus Institute, London,

an organisation dedicated to
academic research into the

esoteric and the paranormal.

The head of the Institute,
Mr. Elias Bouchard,

has employed me to replace
the previous Head Archivist,

one Gertrude Robinson,

who has recently passed away.

I have been working as a researcher
at the Institute for four years now

and am familiar with most of our
more significant contracts and projects.

Most reach dead ends, predictably enough,

as incidents of the supernatural,
such as they are;

and I always emphasise there are
very few genuine cases

tend to resist easy conclusions.

When an investigation has gone
as far as it can,

it is transferred to the Archives.

Now,

the Institute was founded in 1818,

which means that the Archive contains

almost 200 years of
case files at this point.

Combine that with the fact

that most of the Institute prefers
the ivory tower of pure academia

to the complicated work of
dealing with statements

or recent experiences

and you have the recipe for
an impeccably organised library

and an absolute mess of an archive.

This isn’t necessarily a problem

modern filing and indexing
systems are a real wonder,

and all it would need

is a half-decent archivist
to keep it in order.

Gertrude Robinson was apparently

not that archivist...

From where I am sitting,
I can see thousands of files.

Many spread loosely around the place,

others crushed into unmarked boxes.

A few have dates on them
or helpful labels

such as 86-91 G/H.

Not only that,

but most of these appear
to be handwritten

or produced on a typewriter

with no accompanying digital
or audio versions of any sort.

In fact, I believe the first
computer to ever enter this room

is the laptop that I brought in today.

More importantly,
it seems as though

little of the actual investigations
have been stored in the Archives,

so the only thing in most of the files

are the statements themselves.

It is going to take me

a long, long

time to organise this mess.

I’ve managed to secure the services
of two researchers to assist me.

Well, technically three,

but I don’t count Martin

as he’s unlikely to contribute
anything but delays.

I plan to digitise the files
as much as possible

and record audio versions,

though some will have
to be on tape recorder,

as my attempts to
get them on my laptop

have met with…

significant audio distortions.

Alongside this Tim, Sasha and, yes,

I suppose, Martin

will be doing some
supplementary investigation

to see what details may be
missing from what we have.

I’ll try to present these in as

succinct a fashion as I can
at the end of each statement.

I can, unfortunately, promise no
order in regards to date or theme

of the statements that are recorded,

and can only apologise
to any future researcher

attempting to use these files
for their own investigations.

That’s probably enough time
spent making my excuses

for the state of this place,

and I suppose we have to begin somewhere.

Statement of Nathan Watts,

regarding an encounter
on Old Fishmarket Close,

Edinburgh.

Original statement given

April 22nd 2012.

Audio recording by Jonathan Sims,

Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute,

London.

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.

I wasn’t in any sort of university
accommodation at this point,

and 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 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 MacAulay, a good friend of mine,

had just been accepted to do
a Master’s degree in Earth Sciences

so we decided a celebration was in order.

Well, maybe ‘party’
isn’t quite the right word,

we just kind of invaded the
Albanach 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 Albanach 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

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 Fishmarket Close.

Now, I’m sure you don’t
need me to tell you

that there are some
steep hills in Edinburgh

but Old Fishmarket Close is exceptional,

even by those standards.

At times it must reach
a thirty or forty degree angle,

which is hard enough to navigate

when you don’t have that
much scotch inside you.

As I have mentioned,
I had quite a lot,

so it probably wasn’t that surprising
when I took a rather nasty tumble

about halfway down the street.

In retrospect,

the fall wasn’t that bad compared
to what it could have been,

but at the time, it really shook me up,

and left me 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 and looking around,

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 stairs 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 asked if they were ok with a roll-up.

The figure didn’t move except
to continue that gentle swaying.

Writing it down now,

it seems 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

and 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 point, 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 alleyway.

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 realised exactly what was wrong.

Its mouth was closed,

had been the whole 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,

trying to turn on the torch.

I don’t know why I didn’t run

or what I hoped to see in that 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 into the alley,

but I saw nothing.

Just silence and darkness.

I staggered back up to the Royal Mile,

which still had lights and people,

and 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,

as I had intended to be sleeping
off a heavy night of drinking,

which I guess 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 did find

was an unsmoked Marlboro 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,

but couldn’t find anyone who’d had
any experience similar to mine,

and there didn’t seem to be any folklore

or urban legends I could find out
about Old Fishmarket Close.

The few friends I told about
what happened just assumed

I’d been accosted by some stranger and

the alcohol had made it seem
much weirder than it was.

I tried to explain that I’ve never
had hallucinations while drunk,

and that there was no way this guy
had just been a normal person,

but they always gave
me one of those looks,

halfway between
pity and concern

and I’d shut up.

I never did find out
anything else about it,