Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Mon, Jan 30, 2017 at 9:13 AM

to: hr.enquiries@magnus_institute.uk

from: sjames@magnus_institute.uk

subject: Work Policy

Hello,

Out of professional curiosity, I would like to enquire whether the Institute’s policy describes any clauses regarding ghosts, manifestations and non-corporeal persons that are technically still in employment. Specifically, I am interested in clauses pertaining to workplace harassment and after-hours tomfoolery. Please assure Mr Bouchard, if he sees this, that the information is for a personal project and any coincidences with real-life events are unintentional.

Many thanks,

Sasha James, Head Archivist.

Martin awakens from his slumber with a faint impression of dreams about fog and cold, boundless seas clinging to his memory. As he proceeds to semi-consciously scrub his eyes and fix his glasses, a sheet of paper gets unstuck from his cheek and slowly, gently drifts to the desk surface. 

“Look who’s finally decided to join us,” Tim smirks and rolls over, riding his chair like a wild stallion, both hands occupied with a carton box from some kind of board game. “Rough night?”

“Something like that,” Martin replies, pausing mid-sentence to stifle a yawn. In truth, he, as usual, visited his mother on Saturday and, as usual, got back home with a deep, crushing sense of disappointment — in himself and in the situation as a whole. He spent Sunday watching cartoons and eating chocolate-cherry ice cream right from the tub, and then he couldn’t sleep because the prospect of spending upcoming years fighting an annoying ghost on weekdays and his mother on weekends left him feeling completely, utterly helpless.

“Well, worry no more! For I, Timothy Van Stoker might have a solution to our invisible pest problem.” With that, Tim shoves Martin’s work papers aside and drops the box onto the desk. The box, Martin notes in bewilderment, is not a game set, but rather—

“An Ouija Board? Seriously?”

“Weird problems require weirder solutions,” Tim states nonchalantly. 

“What’s wrong with pen and paper?” Martin asks, confused. “Or are we operating based on crap B-movie logic?” 

Tim doesn’t look discouraged by Martin’s comment in the least. “Think about it this way: have you ever seen this thing writing messages? No. It takes pens and paper, but it never actually uses them — and we don’t know yet what it does with the case files,” Tim replies, shrugging.

“Maybe it does write and we just haven’t found the notes.”

“Maybe. Or maybe it simply likes to take random stuff to mess with us. Maybe it hoards all those documents like a demented English professor, waiting until we run out of patience. This,” Tim argues, pointing at the board, “has the same chance of working as any other type of communication. Either the thing can and wants to come in contact, or it doesn’t.”

“I suppose…” Martin relents, not entirely convinced. “How should we do it, then?”

“Probably best to wait until Sash is done with the recording. I’ll move the tables to make space, you go get us some tea.”

Martin would’ve offered to swap the roles (he’s the bigger guy, after all), but whatever monstrosity results from Tim being in unsupervised proximity to the kettle cannot, for the love of god, be called tea. And Martin is terrifyingly close to maiming someone for a cup of nice, calming brew right now.

“Imagine if our specter got lost in the document storage,” Tim says sometime later, when the Ouija magic produces no desired effects. They’ve been sitting in a circle for the last twenty minutes, with Martin feeling increasingly ridiculous, as if he’s attempting to summon Bloody Mary at a teenagers’ sleepover.

“I hope it got bored and moved on to the afterlife,” Martin says.

“What if it’s standing right here, mocking us?” Tim whispers loudly.

“I’ll do you one worse: what if it doesn’t speak English?” Martin replies.

“I thought we’d established that it’s a former archivist. Obviously, it knows English.”

“Correction, we’ve established there’s a good chance it’s an archivist,” Martin says, “but it might as well be an unfortunate construction worker or a technician. Maybe they came in here to fix that flickering lightbulb in the closet and then tripped and died because this place is falling apart and hasn’t had any renovations since before William the Conqueror.”

Tim huffs. “Well, maybe—”

“Boys, boys,” Sasha chides. “Okay, I’ll go out on a limb here and say that this idea didn’t work. We’ll have to try a different angle. Tim, have you gone through the camera files yet?”

“Yeah.” Tim sighs tiredly. “Nothing paranormal on them. Though you might like to know, Sash, that Elias came down here after we’d left on Friday.”

“What?” 

“Elias?”

“What did he do?” Martin asks nervously.

“Dunno. He didn’t say anything, just sorta ventured around the desks and into the storage room, stared at the clipboard for a minute. Didn’t touch or take stuff, so… Fuck knows what his deal is.” 

“Do you think… he’s more worried about the ghost than he let on?” Martin turns to Sasha uncertainly.

Sasha hums, biting her thumb nail in thought. “I would say he’s just checking on us… But then why not do it during the work hours? Something here isn’t right. He hasn’t contacted me yet, but… let’s just be more careful from now on. I don’t want him to plan an intervention because we’re wasting the company's time or something.”

Mon, Jan 30, 2017 at 4:21 PM

to: sjames@magnus_institute.uk 

from: hr.enquiries@magnus_institute.uk

re: Work Policy

Good day Sasha,

Following your email, I regretfully inform you that no such clauses are documented in the Institute’s workplace regulations, although I’ve attached files detailing our policy on harassment and inappropriate behaviour. Hope this helps.

Mr Bouchard also found me earlier and asked to pass along his regards, so I assume you’ve talked to him about your project. He might be better suited to answering any further questions if you have them. 

Best wishes,

Anatolia Kaplan, HR Manager.

There is a dark red stain on one of the files Tim opens that day.

“Frankly, I think it’s more burgundy than dark red.”

“Whatever, colour is a social construct anyway.”

“Gender is a social construct, Tim. I’m pretty sure colour is an actual physical property.”

Martin sits on the opposite side of the breakroom table, with the file laid out between him and Tim. It’s a quiet Tuesday, and Martin can fully appreciate the fact that the Archives have a breakroom separate from the rest of the building, probably because running up and down the basement stairs isn’t anyone’s idea of a break well-spent. Although there’s also a chance that archival employees are deemed too weird to risk unleashing them upon the rest of the Institute's unsuspecting staff.

“Yeah, but the way I describe blue, for example, will differ from your or anyone else’s idea of blue. People don’t see things as they are, but rather see certain ideas of those things, if you get me,” Tim says, excited. “Therefore, colour is totally subjective.”

“Describing shades is subjective, sure, but unless you are colourblind, you will, like, still see the exact same things I do.”

Sasha, as if sensing a potentially interesting, pointless argument, chooses that moment to come in for her mid-morning coffee refill. “Heya guys. Which concept are we demolishing today?”

“Uh, so Tim thinks all colours are subjective. And I think they are objective, but open to, erm, personal interpretation,” Martin relays dutifully.

“Back me up here, Sash,” Tim says, twisting in his chair to glance at their boss.

“Mm,” Sasha says, smirking, and pretends to consider her options. “I’m not supposed to back anyone up. It’s called favouritism, and it’s bad for the workplace environment.” 

Tim glances at his lunch. “Can I, perchance, bribe you with half of this exquisite chicken sandwich, oh fair Miss James?”

“You may,” Sasha says, balancing her coffee in one hand and plucking the food from Tim’s container with the other. “So, my opinion? I agree with Martin here.” And then she bites into her sandwich and leaves.

“Unbelievable,” Tim whines dramatically, sliding down his seat, and Martin cannot help but snort at the display. “Everyone is against me today.”

“What’s the stain from, anyhow?” Martin asks, taking a large sip of cooling tea and coming to regret it almost immediately. 

“Oh, y’know, apparently, when giving a statement, the guy tried to chop his finger off.”

Let it be said, Martin never choked so hard in his life.

After wrapping up the colour debate, he goes back to working, only occasionally pestered by Tim’s attempts at a conversation. Sasha is pretty laid-back management-wise, so Martin doesn’t fear any repercussions for getting side-tracked or talking too much while on the clock, but he’d still like to finish his assigned case for today.

“Did you see the ghost hand from up close? Was it more of a withered-old-crone hand or a guy-slightly-older-than-me hand?” Tim says, proceeding to accidentally catapult his pen across the room.

“I’ve no idea, sorry, I was too busy panicking,” Martin half-whispers in response, not tearing his gaze away from the computer.

“Do you think it hates what we’re doing to the Archives? That we roused it from the dead by doing what we're not supposed to do?”

Martin sighs, massaging his head. “Honestly? Don’t know and don’t really care, so long as it leaves us in peace.”

“It’s proper weird, isn’t it?” Tim exhales. “Just sitting here, casually chatting about some fucking real-life enactment of The Conjuring. I’m still terrified, obviously, but something about all of this… it’s just so surreal that I forget to be scared most of the time. I’ll be sitting, minding my business, and suddenly I’ll be like, ‘Holy fuck. An actual ghost! ’ and then my brain will start to freak out.”

“Yeah,” Martin says. “At this point, my basic fear response is- it’s just being annoyed? At the scary thing that interrupts my day?"

"Ye foul devil that stealeth me pens and flickereth me lights, be gone!" Tim imitates in a grave, theatrical voice.

Martin chuckles. "Sort of. I think– I think my brain hopes that I might be able to, like, intimidate the poltergeist out of existence or whatever. Which is — so not true.”

“Now, now, don’t sell yourself short!” As Martin breaks his resolve and turns to look at Tim, the latter grins. “I say this in the most loving way possible, Marto, but you can be such a bastard to the people you dislike. Take David from Research, for example—”

“Nooo, not the David from Research, please— ”

“—you were ruthless! ‘See if I ever check out so much as a single two-page, piss-stained pamphlet for you!’ Brilliant, absolutely badass. He looked at you like you were Meduza, turning him into stone with your savage words.”

Martin moans, hands coming up to cover his face in embarrassment. “It’s just– the books he took out always came back with tears and annotations made in pen, for chrissake, even after I specifically told him to be gentle with the Library’s property. Then Sarah had a bad day, and he was being a dick to her, and I also had a bad day, so I– I, um, yelled at him, a bit.”

“A bit,” Tim echoes, amused. “What I’m saying is — stop trying to reinvent the wheel. Just tune in your inner bitch, air out your frustrations, so to speak. Use any means necessary if it helps you cope with an ever-elusive, possibly evil, definitely irritating spirit.”

“Thanks,” Martin says softly. “That’s actually very—” 

He glances up, and the half-formed sentence catches in his throat.

“Tim,” he croaks, words coated with a sense of urgency, “Tim, please tell me you see this.”

“Hm? See what?” Tim asks absent-mindedly. Martin cannot force himself to look away, so he doesn’t know the exact moment Tim registers the third person, if it can even be called that, present in the room. But he gets his confirmation when Tim’s chair slams into the wall behind them with how fast its occupant gets on his feet. “Holy fuck!”

Holy fuck, indeed.

There is someone else here. A blurry, translucent contour of a human body, poorly sketched out near the investigation clipboard. It’s fading in and out, changing like a pattern of fractal light, reminding Martin of sun rays dancing underwater. Its edges are incomplete, overlapping, as if drawn by an unpracticed hand and erased and re-done many times over. If Martin squints hard enough, he can distinguish two rectangular shapes on its otherwise featureless, smeared face. Glasses.

It also appears to be holding a very much corporeal, physically present case file.

“Sash!” Tim calls out, and the transparent form flickers. “Sasha, an emergency here!”

Either spooked by Tim’s exclamations or simply pursuing its own strange goal, their guest moves towards the document storage. Martin wastes half a second to wonder, hysterically, whether they should be considered guests instead since this thing resides, and has been residing, here for longer – before he and Tim hurry after it. The ghost then floats right through the shut door, with the file slipping from its grasp and smacking onto the floor. 

Tim wrestles the door open and enters the storage, Martin close on his heels. They frantically scan the nearest rows, and Martin even checks under the shelves, but there is nothing besides dusty boxes and dangerously tilting towers of stacked paper. The apparition is gone. 

“What’s the ruckus here?” Sasha asks, peeking inside. Tim and Martin, both out of breath, simultaneously turn their heads to each other, which would be comical in any other setting.

“Uhm,” Tim says intelligently. “It seems we might need to record another statement.”

They don’t record another statement, instead deciding to assess the situation first.

“Well, I’ll be damned. It does know how to write,” Tim says, sounding awed and disturbed in equal measure.

All of them are gathered around the breakroom table again, staring at the open file dropped by the fleeing ghost. Before anyone could stop him, Martin compulsively made three cups of tea. He is holding his own like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the moment, which. Isn’t that far from the truth, actually.

“Are we sure it’s the same one that went missing?” he says, biting the inside of his cheek. “Maybe it’s– just someone’s personal copy with notes added in.”

“It’s the same one.” Sasha nods, dead serious. “There’s a crease where I’ve accidentally bent it, and look — a title I’ve written in pencil.”

“Meat Cute?” 

Sasha rolls her eyes. “It helps me remember the statements better. Don’t act as if you don’t have your own weird strategy.”

Tim raises his hands placatingly. “Hey, if it works, it works.”

“And you are absolutely certain this– this wasn’t here previously?” Martin presses.

“Yes. I think I’d remember a whole follow-up essay detailing the case’s background and speculations regarding its origins. The phrase ‘imagine what they must have put in those funny brownies to induce such vivid hallucinations’ is pretty hard to overlook.”

Martin sighs heavily, and Tim swears.

“So, to summarise, it takes our files and does our job for us, unpaid and unprompted. S’pose it proves that our resident Casper is quite insane,” Tim says, rotating his mug. Martin watches, mesmerised, as the ceramic handle goes ‘round and ‘round. It’s captivating, and so much easier to focus on than the tangles of this ghost mystery. After all, Martin has never been particularly good at whodunnit, even less so at whatthefuckdoesitwant.

“More than that, it proves our ghost is a former archivist. I don’t think anyone else would feel such an obligation to this job, no offence to you guys,” Sasha reasons calmly, as she always does.

“None taken.” Tim shrugs good-naturally. “I barely feel obligated to turn up on time, and I’m on the payroll.”

“Right. Then this essentially narrows our suspect list down to two people. Either could have died here, unpleasantly, and gotten stuck trying to fulfil their mission. They could also be dangerous, and we now have confirmation that they can continuously and purposefully interact with physical objects, which puts us at risk.”

The possibility of the ghost grabbing a knife or a chair and seriously harming them hasn’t even entered Martin’s head, and he’s so glad for the wake-up call. This isn’t a high-budget fantastic movie adventure with infallible protagonists, this is something he could die from.

“What do we do?” he asks the table surface. “Killing it is impossible by default, and I don’t believe common ways of defence like sault circles and flashing a crucifix at it will work.”

Tim scratches his forehead. “We could try the mainstream approach, I guess? Finding out who they are and what they need to move the fuck on.”

“Researching ghost banishment methods will take a while,” Sasha concedes. “I don’t like sitting idle, and any idea is better than none.”

“Okay, gents and a lady,” Tim announces gleefully, “we’re choosing between a creepy old hag and a handsome loner prick. Place your bets, everyone!”

Sasha huffs in fond amusement, tucking a runaway hair behind her glasses. Suddenly, a peculiar detail invades Martin’s mind without warning. 

“Glasses,” he whispers in shocked realisation. 

“Sorry, whassat?” Tim asks.

“Glasses,” Martin repeats louder. “It had glasses, rectangular frames, I think. It was very unclear, all of  its face was gone, but– but there were definitely glasses.”

He turns back to the main room, the clipboard partially visible from his seat. Gertrude had this pair of tiny old-fashioned round spectacles, whereas Jonathan—

Martin’s heart jumps.

“Oh,” he says, voice tight with emotion he cannot name. “I think it’s him.”

On Wednesday, one problem becomes abundantly clear: they don’t have a journal. 

Of course, with Ryman on the other side of the road, they can buy all sorts of stationery, including week planners, year planners, notebooks, paperbacks, tiny notepads that fit into your pocket — you name it.

But they don’t have a specific journal mentioned in the newly acquired (read: left behind) case notes from Tuesday, which apparently contains some rather sensitive and relevant information. Sasha went through her desk, twice, but only extracted a dried-up pen, several erasers blackened from use and a disgusting lump of sticky tack that managed to gather every crumble and dust speck in its vicinity. Martin and Tim searched in the main office and storage, but with the absolutely intimidating amount of paper randomly shoved into every corner, their chances of locating any item without a map were appallingly slim. 

But Sasha needs this journal, and when she needs something, she finds ways of getting it. On Thursday, she has an awful, crazy, shot-in-the-dark idea, which she immediately puts into action.

The chain of events, as Martin is told post-factum, unravels like this: Sasha visits Rosie at the reception, pretending to have lost her scarf; Rosie redirects Sasha to the janitor who was last on shift, his name being Edwyn; because Edwyn works during the nights and Sasha is impatient, she tracks down the other janitor, Louis; Louis accompanies Sasha to the Institute’s lost-and-found room, where she rifles through the mess ‘looking’ for the scarf, meanwhile subtly milking Louis for information.

She asks, “Do you throw any of this stuff away?”

And Louis replies, “If no one comes for it, yeah. We usually clear this place out after New Year, but Amelia’s been away sick, so it’s slower this time ‘round. Probably get back to it next week or so.”

To which Sasha says, pseudo-jokingly, “Gosh, a whole year? I don’t suppose you can find my predecessor’s old shoes in here for me to fill in?” 

“Hah, no, probably not. Could be some things of his lying about, but I don’t recall any shoes.”

Sasha says, “Did no one take them? You’d think the family would want something to remember him by.”

And the janitor shrugs. “No one’s been here that I know of. Had to clear out his desk, been waiting for the next of kin to come pick it up, but, well. Either they don’t know, don’t care or don’t exist. A shame, really.”

“Yes,” Sasha admits truthfully. “It’s terribly sad.”

When Louis looks away, she doesn’t falter. With a quick deft movement, she fishes out her scarf from the bag and throws it into one of the boxes.

“Oh!” she says, not in the least surprised. “Found it!” She demonstrates the ‘recovered’ piece of clothing to Louis, who nods and waits for her to exit before he locks the door.

This is how Martin finds himself on the lookout while Sasha attempts lockpicking at two in the morning, with a neverending mantra of ‘I’m gonna get fired, I’m gonna get fired, oh god, I am so fired’ galloping reign-free through his head. They will be caught, and then Martin’s big, fat whopper of a CV will be exposed, and he will end up blacklisted from every respectable institution if he doesn’t land in jail first, and why, why, why the fuck did he agree to this?!

“Sasha,” he ushers, voice an octave too high and heartbeat bordering on tachycardic, “Sasha, come on.”

“Don’t rush me!” she hisses back. “Shit. The door is being stubborn.”

“You are being stubborn,” Martin snips.

“You are worrying too much, give me just a moment.” Click, click.

“Maybe you are not worrying enough. We can get into so much trouble— Elias will be—”

“To hell with Elias.” Clack, scrrgr, click. “He’s hiding something, I can feel it. We will get to the bottom of this.”

“I will die where I stand, Sasha, and when you come to my funeral, there will be a giant inscription on my tombstone saying, ‘Martin Blackwood, tragically killed by his friend’s lack of self-restraint’ next to a picture of my judging face!”

“Yes!” Sasha lets out a triumphant cackle. “Got you, bitch!”

“I’m sorry?!”

“The door, Martin.” Sasha stands up, dusting off her jeans and packing away the break-in kit. “Let’s get inside before someone actually sees us.”

Tim doesn’t seem terribly impressed when he comes in on Friday.

“I feel like I’ve missed a couple of exposition chapters here. Please, enlighten me, what exactly am I looking at?”

“This—” Sasha nods at two cassette tapes, a thick notebook bound in brown leather, a framed photo of a cat, a mug with a stylised ‘What The Ghost?’ logo and a pair of knitted fingerless gloves, “—is our loot. From the night hunt.”

“We robbed the janitors’ storage room,” Martin supplies.

Tim’s eyebrows fly up. “Wow. You don’t do anything by halves, huh, Sash?”

“There was a box,” Sasha defends herself, “filled with Jonathan Sims’s personal belongings. What was I supposed to do, not take it?”

“How did you know it was—”

“The journal,” Martin pipes up again. 

“Yeah, so, this journal is signed as ‘property of J. Sims, the Magnus Institute’, so I figured it’s safe to bet the other stuff was his as well,” Sasha elaborates. 

“Is it the journal? The one you’ve been itching to get your hands on since Wednesday?” 

Sasha’s smug face says it all. “The very same. Though, I must admit, it’s, ah… less helpful than I was hoping for. It’s missing pages, I think, and there’s a bunch of blank space at the beginning for some reason.”

‘Less helpful’, sure. Martin’s just damn glad to have escaped the night guard’s notice. Sue him for having low standards. 

“For instance, in the meat statement he graciously left us, he wrote, ‘Jared Hopworth is a name I’ve already encountered. I’m inclined to think he poses a serious threat, though not of supernatural origin. He’s a criminal, likely a serial killer, which I’ve expanded upon in my personal notes.’ But then I failed to find a single mention of this Hopworth in his journal.” Sasha sighs, gesturing at the offending notebook. “There’s a lot of disjointed ramblings, things not connected to other things, paragraphs starting or ending abruptly— it doesn’t make sense. Why doesn’t it make any sense?”

“So, the journal is useless garbage? Figures.” Tim flops down in his chair, exhaling. 

“At least we got to compare the writing,” Martin says. “Unless our ghost is an impostor who hides the actual Jonathan somewhere under the floorboards, it… uh, or he, rather, really is the journal’s author.”

“Okay, so we have the who, but not the why. We have a pile of stolen crap that might not bear an iota of significance, we are hiding this whole conspiracy from Elias, and we are on an indefinite deadline until the ghost of Jonathan fucking Sims manifests properly and obliterates us. Am I forgetting any details?”

“Nope,” says Martin.

“Peachy,” Tim drawls out. “Why did I ever think the archiving job would be boring?”

In the end, Sasha volunteers to listen to Sims’s tapes over the weekend, while Tim is tasked with figuring out how to get rid of the man’s lingering imprint on the realm of the living, which leaves Martin facing off against the inscrutable, distressing journal that might very well be one of the last mementoes of Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist. At home in the evening, Martin squares his shoulders, cracks his knuckles, slides his teacup closer and begins to read.

Personal notes of Jonathan Sims, regarding his life before, and shortly after, becoming Head Archivist. Entry written June 18th, 2015. 

I must say, I've never been a social butterfly — rather the opposite, in fact. A social night moth, if you will. 

I was an annoying, obnoxious child that’s grown into an equally annoying, if somewhat more self-aware, adult. I refused to get along with my peers, to feign interest in something I was at best indifferent to only for the sake of being included. I hated talking about the weather, sports, racing cars, or movies packed with explosive action, and the things I wished to discuss with others always seemed to be the wrong sort for making friends. ‘Hey, did you know that after you’re dead, the skin around your fingernails retracts, so they seem longer?’  What a charming opener, and yes, I did attempt to start a conversation with it once.

Despite this, I wasn’t bored by myself, far from it. Being alone was freeing and adventurous, and I could talk out loud to my heart’s content and inhale new information with the speed of a vacuum cleaner. My grandmother was worried, of course. Isolation does terrible things to one’s mind, especially a mind still young. She was right to be concerned, but at the time, I didn’t know that. 

At some point, to my deepest regret, I stopped being the local weird know-it-all and turned into the local crazy outcast instead. This change happened practically overnight, following an experience I neither want to remember nor describe here at length. In short, terrible things happened in our quiet neighbourhood, forever snatching away my naivete and blind trust in other people.

I still took an interest in whatever novel and mildly intriguing subject caught my attention, but I grew withdrawn and stopped reaching out to anyone who wasn’t in my immediate familiar circle. I was destabilised, often staying stubbornly mute for days or having embarrassing fits, which the other children latched onto like a pack of hyenas. My attendance at primary school was not what I’d call pleasant memories.

Nonetheless, a man must persevere. I passed my A-levels filled with deep resentment towards the rest of my cohort; not without reason, obviously, but I now cannot help but wonder if, perhaps, my judgement was occasionally too harsh and not entirely fair. 

The university was different. Every person I’ve crossed paths with was too preoccupied with themselves to give a damn about me, for which I was grateful. My self-confidence even recovered enough to try dating, though that went up in flames rather spectacularly. This might just have been the happiest I’d felt in a long while. So, naturally, I ruined it by making an ass of myself, too afraid to let the wonderful bunch I called my friends near the tattered remains of my personhood. Then I graduated, moved to London and didn’t hear from either of them again.

I got a place at the Magnus Institute, Research Department. I buried my grandmother a year into my new job. I tried bringing houseplants to my minimalistic barren flat to make it lovelier but constantly forgot to water them, and eventually, they all withered away within a month. I was too afraid to take a pet in after that.

I suppose if there is one positive to be found, it’s that no living thing will be left waiting if I don’t make it back one day, which starts to seem like a real possibility. Something is deeply, profoundly wrong with the Institute, and I intend to uncover it. My isolation has become both my reprieve and my curse: I don’t put anyone dear to me at risk by acting selfishly and ignorantly, yet I cannot trust or confide in them either.

I was made Head Archivist, god knows why, and I will strive to record my proceedings in case I disappear like the previous one. I don’t fear for my safety, but if you are reading this, then I was likely found out and dealt with.

If that is so, please avoid showing my notes to the Institute's staff and send them to the formal agencies at your earliest convenience. I don’t have any close connections, but I want someone to know what happened to me.

Thank you for your cooperation,

— Jonathan Sims.

Chapter Text

Martin doesn’t know whether he pities Sims more for dying or for having done so with full comprehension of his loneliness, likely not hoping that anyone would be interested in his fate. A part of Martin wishes he could talk to the ghost properly and maybe ask whether it remembers being the Head Archivist and thus continues to do his job… or whether it simply does what feels familiar and natural, with no recollection of the past whatsoever. 

Martin hasn’t read the ‘follow-up essay’ for Meat Cute (and isn’t that an odd turn of phrase), but from what Sasha said, he inferred there was a lot of information that a spirit trapped in a basement shouldn’t possess. So, either it has access to some otherworldly clairvoyance or is able to travel outside the Archives and stay hidden, with both options being far from optimal. Another riddle that merely proves none of them have even a vague idea of what’s going on and how much danger, exactly, they are potentially in. 

The last week kept them all, to put it lightly, on edge: the files vanished right and left, scattering away like spooked squirrels; Martin’s jacket and scarf constantly ended up on the stairs, as if caught in the middle of escaping from all the lunacy; as Tim’s desk doesn’t have a locking drawer, his pens, pencils, rulers and scissors drifted to every corner of the office the minute he turned his back. To top it off, the humanoid manifestation itself appeared twice, the second time causing Tim to drop a heavy folder on his foot and curse the ghost and its mother to the high heavens.

Not to mention, there’s this whole deal with Elias.

“Knock-knock,” he says, all smiles, standing at the entrance to Sasha’s office a few days after they stole Jonathan’s notebook. “May I have a word?”

Sasha’s door is always open when she’s not busy recording audio commentaries, so Tim and Martin get a full view of her sitting up straighter and suppressing an instinctive frown before Elias lets himself in and closes the door. Martin can hear the voices drifting through but is only able to distinguish pieces of the conversation.

Elias’s smug, enquiring tone reeks of anticipatory self-congratulation. “…received a peculiar alert… some belongings went missing… cameras disabled… wouldn’t happen to know..?” 

Martin’s heart does a twisting somersault in his chest. That’s it, he thinks fatalistically. I’m done for; might as well buy a sturdy shovel and go dig myself a hole under the London Bridge.

His planning, however, is cut off by Sasha, who speaks softly but with unyielding confidence. “…merely interested… would never violate… assistants can vouch for me… sorry I can’t help…”

After a brief pause, during which Martin assumes some sort of silent pissing contest is taking place, Elias hums. “…very well… thought I’d check… cannot be too careful…”

Then the door opens again, letting their ‘boss-boss’, as Tim calls him, out. 

“Do contact me if anything changes, Sasha, and try not to… get ahead of yourself, m? You are an extremely valuable and talented employee,” Elias says, tilting his head, lips curled condescendingly. His gaze shifts first to the clipboard, now featuring a single photo of Jonathan Sims, then to Tim, and finally lands on Martin, who feels a bead of cold sweat sliding down his spine. “It would be a shame to lose you to something entirely preventable.”

The last sentence sounds too ominous for Martin’s comfort, and he can only applaud Sasha for maintaining such a stoic, unperturbed face.

“Thank you,” she replies, staring unflinchingly at Elias’s back, hands clasped under her chin. “I will be careful.”

Elias lingers for a moment, and Martin imagines him as a kind of vulture whose prey is trying to convince him he’s better off hunting elsewhere. When he finally leaves, both Tim and Sasha visibly deflate.

“Jesus, he’s intense,” Tim says, mussing his hair.

Martin nods. “Anyone else get this… weirdly threatening vibe, or is it just my anxiety spiking up?”

“No, I also felt it,” Sasha agrees, moving to stand in the doorway. “We’re getting closer to something he doesn’t want us to know.”

“Shit,” Tim murmurs. “I counted on the supernatural enemy and was absolutely not prepared to deal with normal living dickheads. God, I really don’t want to die and become a ghost: translucent white and pale blue are so not my colours.”

Martin turns to him with a deadpan expression. “Well, Tim, I’m glad it’s the only problem you see with this outcome.”

Whoever Jonathan Sims was in life, his half-there ghost is capable of being only one thing: extremely, fundamentally, mind-bogglingly irritating.

It’s probably unwise to aggravate an ethereal presence that might as well decide it’s had enough, turn around and throttle Martin with his own tie, but. But. As Tim pointed out, Martin isn’t good at playing nice with those he doesn’t like, and he cannot stand this fucking ghost. So, he has to effortfully restrain himself every time he thinks of doing something ill-advised, such as setting the Archives on fire to see whether the poltergeist will disintegrate from the sheer disrespect to its profession.

“Should we chain our pens to the table? That’s what they’re doing at banks and post offices, don’t they?” Tim’s voice rings out from where he’s searching in the document storage for at least one functioning writing utensil.

Half an hour ago, Martin’s file had the gall to try and make a break for it while still being scrutinised. Martin cursed, slammed it back onto the surface and has been pinning it down with his weight ever since, which is to say, he’s currently pressing his arms and forehead against the table, a perfect picture of Cézanne’s Mary Magdalene.

“My mum’s side of the family used to visit us on holidays.” Martin turns his head to Tim’s estimated location. “And they always brought my small cousin, which— not to badmouth a kid, but he was…”

“Two evil raccoons in a trenchcoat?” Tim reappears in the office, clutching a sad, pathetic stump of a pencil.

“Quite. He would- would lock our antique armoire and hide the key, or- or stuff pieces of paper into the air vent, or leave a trace of snacks and condiments for us to clean up, and so forth.” Marin sighs, finally rising from his awkwardly bent position — surely, the ghost has already floated away to attend to some ghostly business. “And I know it’s different, that the poltergeist probably isn’t entirely aware of our existence… just, cannot help but draw some parallels, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Tim muses, returning to his desk. “I tried babysitting once. This whole—” he gestures to encompass the room, “—it’s like being fifteen again, forced to deal with someone else’s charge, waiting for the guardians to come take their little heathen away.”

Martin scrunches his nose. “Except the guardians never show up and the charge in question is a dead man.” He does a bit of reconsideration on the last part, one hand cradling his chin. “Can we even say it’s a man? Like, it’s what remains of Jonathan, so yes, it is him, in a way. But is there enough of him left to call it Jonathan? Is it even a person, or a- a restless mindless echo?”

Tim’s face goes through a series of expressions, bearing an imprint of his mental strain. “I mean… If you take one straw from a haystack at a time, at which point does it stop being a stack and turn into a handful of straws?” He chews on his lower lip, flexing his fingers around the hard-earned pencil. “This ghost… If there’s enough human thought left to compose cohesive written arguments, then I’m fine calling him Jonathan. Mr Sims? No, that’s worse. Jonathan, it is.”

Martin, with his consciousness lulled by the compelling argument, barely manages to catch a movement out of the corner of his eye. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

He whirls around and forcefully snatches his poor file from a feeble invisible grip.

Group Chat: Ghostbusters!!

Tim 

4:17 AM

went thru recorded videos again 2day

guess what

Me

4:18 AM

Why are you awake?? Sasha will have your head >:(

Tim

4:18 AM

shhh doesn’t matter i found smth

veeeery interesting 

Me

4:18 AM

Should I be worried? It sounds like I should be worried

Tim

4:18 AM

nah its fine just funny 

so u know how jonny boy was weirdly informed bout the meat statement

and we were like racking our brains

trying to solve this mystery

Me

4:19 AM

Yes

Tim

4:19 AM

so turns out the answer is this :7

📎 ghosty_boy_hacking.mp4

Me

4:23 AM

MY COMPUTER!!!

IT’S USING MY COMPUTER!??!?!!?

TIM WHAT DAY IS THIS

Tim

4:24 AM

haha night actually 

tuesday 7th last week

obv its after the meat statement but the method was the same methinks 

Me

4:24 AM

Can we fit ‘hiring a priest’ under the institute’s expenses? 

Sasha

4:24 AM

1) no, 2) good job, Tim, and 3) go to sleep, both of you

Martin, don’t think I didn’t notice you were online on Facebook before Tim messaged

Tim

4:25 AM

aye aye boss

Me

4:25 AM

Huh

Is this what they teach you in research? media stalking?

Sasha

4:25 AM

Don’t be ridiculous, dear

It’s called tracking, and I’ve learned it in my free time ;)

For a more discreet conversation than the Institute would allow, they usually have lunches and a mid-week catch-up at the nearest Pret A Manger, as well as a fortnightly informal get-together at Tim’s. The latter is reserved more for relaxation and fun purposes, while the other two have been established to review the progressing ghost-igation. On Thursday, lunch is, for lack of a better word, informative.

“There is one thing that bothers me,” Sasha says, slurping her iced oat milk latte and tapping her notes with a pen.

“Only one?” Tim needles. “Jel.”

Sasha sends him her patented Unimpressed Look, a secret weapon only whipped out in situations when someone is being purposefully difficult. “Anyway,” she continues, “do you know why I thought to search for the blasted diary in the Institute’s storage?”

Martin, still sore from his first breaking-and-entering, pointedly clears his throat. “Because of your mythical, holistic ability to be at the right places at not in the least appropriate time?”

“Ooh, like Dirk Gently.” Tim nods in understanding. “That explains a lot. Hm. Are we your slightly dumber side-kicks used by the author to propel the story?”

“No to every part of that except for ‘side-kicks’, which gets tentative maybe.” Sasha finishes her drink and moves the empty cup to the side. Martin recognises her posture as the ‘rant oncoming’ one and prepares himself. “Okay, well. When I found out Jonathan kept a journal, I tried to think of it from his perspective. If I were so dedicated and meticulous that I’d continue working even after my death, of course, I’d keep my notes updated. Meaning, I’d need them close at all times, so I’d definitely bring them with me everywhere.”

Tim leans back, arms crossed. “Right, yeah, makes sense. Wouldn’t surprise me if he revised them before bed or while brushing his teeth.”

Sasha’s finger drums an impatient staccato on the table. “Exactly,” she replies. “He most certainly brought them to the Institute and wouldn’t have left such a vital thing just lying around in the mess, which leads to the question of where did they end up?”

“We know where,” Martin retorts a tad tetchily. “We practically ransacked that closet.”

“Again, sorry for dragging you there, but shush now,” Sasha says. “What I’m saying is — to be found, the journal had to have been somewhere in the office. I luckily guessed that Jonathan had left it there, and when I started asking around, the solution turned out to be pretty simple.”

“Okay.” Tim frowns. “So what’s the problem?”

“The problem is, when we went looking, we found more than a single journal. Which got me wondering. The framed photo, the mug, the gloves — those are all the things you’d leave in your personal space, it’s normal, it’s rational. But…”

“But..?” Martin prompts.

“...if those belongings were cleared out with the journal, and the janitors swear they didn’t throw any of them away…” Sasha sighs. “Then I have no idea where all the rest of it is. As in, his ID, his winter coat, Oyster card, bag, cell phone, and so on — where could it all have gone?”

“Oh,” Martin murmurs. “I- I never realised so much was… just missing.”

“I also hacked the Archival database,” Sasha states, to Martin’s non-existent amazement. “You guys know that I use my laptop instead of the office computer to upload heavy audio files?”

Martin and Tim voice their agreement in synchrony, accustomed to being Sasha’s stand-ins to bounce the speeches off of. 

“I traced the IP from Jonathan’s uploaded files — whatever he used to update the online Archive, it was his personal device as well. So how come they found his journal, but not his own bloody laptop?”

“Which he definitely had and brought in because he’s such a dedicated and meticulous stick in the mud,” Tim says in astonishment. “Fuck me.”

They sit in pondering silence for a moment before Martin is hit with another idea.

“Could,” he starts tentatively, “could someone… have taken his stuff between the disappearance and the arrival of- of the cleaning crew?”

Tim glances at Sasha, who sets her jaw and voices what Tim’s apparently passed along their mental queerplatonic drift. 

“Police.”

For some reason, Martin feels obligated to bring Melanie King up to date with their poltergeist situation. She’s a professional who took time to go over Martin’s inconclusive report, so it should be common courtesy to let her know he’s survived the haunting thus far. He decides to drop the formalities and bravely message her on Facebook.

Me

5:15 PM

Hello! Martin here!

You probably don’t remember but I sent you a ghost enquiry a couple of months ago

Thanks for responding!!

Just letting you know that I’m still alive haha

The ghost manifested full-time, it’s like having another colleague

He’s a lot to handle but we’re managing

Melanie King

5:31 PM

oh hey I remember you

you work in the spooky old basement, right?

what does it mean ‘manifested full-time’?

Me

5:36 PM

Yeah, Magnus Institute heh 

We see him floating around more often 

And you were right, he’s a Head Archivist

Melanie King

5:37 PM

no way?? seriously a full-fledged apparition?!!

nvm that you just confessed to working for a clown house institute

do you have his dead pics??

Martin

5:38 PM

Sadly only his dead profile

www.facebook.com/jonathan.sims.87

My phone is unable to capture anything

Though I have a video of something invisible typing on a computer if you’re interested

📎 ghosty_boy_hacking.mp4

Melanie King is typing… 

Melanie King is typing… 

Melanie King is typing… 

Melanie King was active 1 minute ago.

Well. Alright, then.

Sasha gets access to the police records because, come on, that’s Sasha for you.

Unfortunately, she comes up blank. There is no mention of a laptop or a mobile, and even the journal and the tapes have managed to fly under the force’s… quite penetrable radar. Sasha speculates some incriminating evidence of supernatural origin might’ve been thoroughly cleaned up, which seriously impedes her progress. Tim, ever the gentleman, puts on his best floral shirt and tightest jeans and goes to try an alternative tactic of his own design.

Martin is not privy to what occurs at the station, but the next day, a no-nonsense police lady with a calculating gaze turns up at the Archives. 

“PC Hussain,” she introduces herself. “This one—” she nods at Tim, who exits the kitchenette, does a double-take and immediately retreats back, ears flaming red, “—was snooping around the station yesterday. I want to know why.”

“I’m so sorry,” Sasha says, projecting an image of a reasonable, law-abiding citizen. “Tim’s friend went missing, and we’re still trying to recover his things. We couldn’t find the phone and thought the police had taken it.”

Martin is stunned to realise that Sasha can be very convincing when she wants to be. They could probably exchange a few tips and tricks, one liar to another.

“Where was he a year ago?” PC Hussain enquires, relentless and suspicious. “We interviewed everyone here, and not one mentioned being in a close relationship with Sims.”

“Tim was distancing himself,” Sasha supplies, truly getting into character. “He took Jon’s disappearance very hard. Thought Jon had merely gone off without telling him and was too angry to consider other options for a while. When we were transferred down here, I think, the gravity of the situation truly got to him.”

“I see,” PC Hussain says curtly. “You wouldn’t mind if I questioned him properly, then?”

Sasha smiles, polite and sharp. “We’ve committed no offence, detective. If you have reasons to believe we did, please come back with a warrant. I don’t want to needlessly subject a grieving colleague to prying only to satisfy your curiosity.”

PC Hussain narrows her eyes as if assessing her chances. The clipboard to her left is empty besides a single photo, which can, indeed, be mistaken for a memorial — if one uses a very generous, very loose definition of the word. She briefly glances at Martin, who prays that she doesn’t categorise his facial expression as particularly guilty.

“Hm,” she says, at last. “Maybe I will.” She stares at Sasha, collected and unbendable, then at Tim, awkwardly shuffling in the doorway to the breakroom. “Don’t think I’m letting you off the hook yet.”

She leaves, and Martin turns to Tim with a look of complete wonder. “What the hell did you do?”

Tim winces. “Let’s say, I offered an apple to a person who prefers oranges and will regret it for the rest of my, undoubtedly very short, life.”

Statement of Jonathan Sims, regarding his gradual disappearance. Statement recorded by the subject, December 3rd, 2015.

I fear I might be fading.

There’s no other word in the English language to describe it. I am fading, inexplicably, steadily, and with no apparent cause. 

Today I went to ask the Library about a book I’d requested three days ago only to be met with vacant stares. There was no request, they said. An assistant went to fetch the book for me and came back a minute later, with no book and looking infinitely lost. She saw me again and smiled in greeting, without any sign of recognition. 

She asked, ‘How can I help?’ And I didn’t have it in me to tell her what she’d forgotten. 

I said, ‘Can I look for a specific title?’ 

‘I’m sorry,’ she replied, shaking her head apologetically. ‘Only authorised access allowed. You can get it from a Department Head.’

My ID at that point showed only my name and face, with no other information. I nodded, thanked her and walked out.

In a fit of desperation, I texted my ex-girlfriend, Georgie Barker. I apologised profusely for my past self, explained my state and practically begged her to meet in person. My message disappeared before she could read it, and my phone calls never went through. 

I used to think I knew isolation intimately. Alas, I am now realising that my previous experiences and grief for a human connection were just a shadow of being truly, completely invisible. Of having others glance through you and talk over you with no acknowledgement of your presence. Of being unintentionally forgotten the second you are out of view. Of being a blank instead of a person.

God. I never imagined it would hurt this much.

I still attempt to work through the statements, to record and upload them into the system, but the audio files get corrupted in quick succession more often than not. When I play them back, my voice is replaced by static. Even the ink in my journal from months ago is starting to dissolve, whole sentences vanishing into the ether. Recording on a cassette is a first. Hopefully, it will last longer. I can hold onto nothing but hope these days.

I am at an impasse. Every trace I’ve left on this earth seems to be getting slowly yet surely erased, causing me such strange, directed pain that it makes me wonder whether all of this is some deliberately tailored effort. Am I being punished? Taught a lesson? Or is this just a giant cosmic coincidence, indifferent to my struggles? 

Georgie once told me that we are the things we leave behind. We are the people we encountered, the pictures we took, the clothes we wore and the ugly wallpaper we chose for our guestrooms. Our bits and pieces are found where we slept, ate, worked, loved and dreamed of the future. So, when the last proof of my existence is gone… I assume, in a sense, I will be as well. The thought scares me more than I reckoned possible.

I shudder to think that when I cease to be, only Elias might remember who I was. He is… an exception to the overall rule. On the occasions when I am forced to interact with him, he behaves as if nothing is amiss. He remembers our conversations in detail, flooding my mail with constant reminders and schedulings. Maybe upper management can simply bypass any employee-concealing curse. Maybe Elias has an exceptional ability to detect miserable people so that he can come to bask in their misery. I don’t believe I have time to untangle this, anyway. 

I will try to reach out while I still can, to fill my journal from cover to cover and reserve a number of cassettes for the next Head Archivist to listen to. I don’t pretend to know how many of those endeavours will have an effect. It’s hard to stay focused and alert, harder to make an impact on others’ perceptions, and nearly impossible to convince them of my permanence. 

But I have to muddle through, don’t I? When everything else seems lost, there’s a choice. You can either flounder with no shore in sight or drown. 

Hah.

Swimming is... much easier when you are terrified of drowning.

.

..

…

This is the end of tape, please rewind.

Martin listens to Jonathan’s first tape, provided by Sasha after she fully transcribed it. He cries, a little, he’s not ashamed to admit it. The dead man’s voice carries such a despondent, mournful quality that Martin finds himself composing a couple of poetic verses, trying to capture the cold and scary feeling of being unmade.

He now has a tone and posh accent to match the serious face from a photo. It might be weird to think of the departed in such categories, but Martin likes to imagine that, in a different, better universe, he and Jonathan might have been… friends. Martin’s always had a bleeding heart, after all, and people like Jonathan — lonely, forgotten, overlooked — tug at the strings of his sympathy most prominently. He knows what it’s like to be ignored and for one’s efforts to go unnoticed. He would never wish this crushing, grinding experience on anyone.

If only he met Jonathan in life, instead of facing his fractured tormented incarnation. If only they weren't too late. If only, if only, if only. 

“I don’t think he’s malicious,” Martin concludes eventually.

“Who, Mr Chaswick?” Tim asks, scanning Martin’s case file for any mistakes. Martin did forge his research background, and he’s not above asking for help when warranted.

“Wha- no, no, the ghost,” Martin hurries to explain. “I don’t think he wants to harm us. Aside from causing extensive emotional scarring, I mean.”

“Mhm.” Tim makes a note in the margins with a pencil.

“He isn’t looking for revenge. He wasn’t murdered, I think. He sort of… evaporated, ceased to be. It sounds fantastical, sure, but that’s our whole deal, right? Believing in the most implausible circumstances. Unless his statement is a- an elaborate metaphor for depression, and he, in fact, died an actual physical death,” Martin rambles.

“I guess.” Tim places the file back on the desk. “It’s just, at this point, it’s more logical to assume he died and then became whatever he is now. I’ve never heard of someone turning into a ghost straight away, like, bypassing the entire dying stage.”

“Yeah, but what if—”

Martin is cut off by the door to the Archives flying open and letting in a short grunge woman with aquamarine hair, who seems indistinctly familiar. Her Doc Martens boots march boldly down the stairs, as she peers around the Archives, gauging the layout. She opens her mouth, and recognition doesn’t knock so much as it slams into and completely derails Martin’s train of thought.

“Wow, no joking. This is one creepy-ass Victorian basement.” Melanie King. 

She is followed by another woman, slightly taller and with her hair tied up in braids, who wears a leather jacket. Martin never fails to be slightly intimidated by people in leather jackets.

“Hi,” says Melanie’s companion. “We’re here on ghost business. I’m Georgie Barker, and this is my partner Melanie King. Where can we find Martin Blackwood?”

Chapter Text

Martin will not confess to it under pain of over-steeped black tea, typically considered a biohazard in progressive societies, but as soon as his name left Georgie Barker’s lips, he let out an indignant squeak, immediately smothered with an unconvincing cough.

As is almost traditional now, they gather at the breakroom table, resembling an annual secret agency meeting. Georgie and Melanie on one side, Tim and Martin on the other, and Sasha standing in-between with her back to the kitchen counter, rounding up the briefing like a two-eyed Nick Fury in a skirt. Martin imagines Tim to be Tony Stark and himself Bruce Banner, specifically in that part of the first Avengers movie where he has no clue what in bally hell is going on.

“You’re Georgie Barker,” he says, mesmerised. “The Georgie Barker?”

“As far as I’m aware, I’m the only Georgie Barker around,” the woman chuckles, visibly confused. “If it’s about the podcast—”

“He mentioned you,” Martin blurts out, unable to squeeze the thought ‘Jonathan tried to contact you before his untimely very sad demise, and you are possibly the only person left whom he cared about, and also he said you were exes, meaning my little infatuation with a dead person is not as weird as it could’ve been if you were still together’ into the narrow confines of the human language. “On the tapes— tape. I’ve only listened to one.”

“Really?” Tim lightens up akin to a Christmas tree sustained purely by office drama. “Talk about coincidence.”

“Yes,” Sasha says, suspicious. “It’s almost too coincidental. A good cover for someone gathering the intel to make a quick interesting story.”

“Hey,” Melanie interferes, “we’re not here to sniff out new scandal material. Sure, I’m curious about your resident Invisible Man, I’m not denying it. But it’s only part of the reason we came.”

“Guys.” Georgie puts her hand on Melanie’s shoulder, either supporting or restraining her, Martin isn’t sure. “I swear I know… knew Jon. We used to date years ago; had been fairly close, I think, but… well, when Melanie told me what’s been happening to you, it’s like I came across a long-buried memory. I’ve been trying to remember ever since. Trying to find a single photo of him, or his number in my contacts, or anything, really, to prove that it’s not all in my head, and...” she trails off, unsure.

“…and it’s just gone, isn’t it?” Martin finishes for her. “Only- only his name remains, with no personality attached.”

“Yes,” Georgie confirms quietly. How hard it must be, Martin wonders, to mourn a loss you don’t even know the extent of. “I can picture his serious face but not his voice. I know he rarely smiled but not what he did or said to me, and I never forget people, ever. This… whatever Jon found, wherever he ended up, this isn’t a normal death.”

Tim scratches his chin. “Yeah, we kinda suspected. We’re investigating his creepy case because no one else will, and the police along with Mr Douchebag upstairs are breathing down our necks. The question is, what’s your role in it?”

Georgie’s loaded piercing gaze snaps up, the temperature in the breakroom seemingly dropping below Celsius out of her sheer radiated badassery.

“Me?” she says, voice determined and ringing with steel. “I’m going to find out who did this to him, and then I’ll show them where the nickname Bare Fist Barker came from.”

An invisible static wave ripples over Martin, causing him to shiver. Oddly enough, it registers as a broken, fragmented signal — a spike of alien, barely-there excitement beamed directly under his skin.

“Of course,” Martin murmurs petulantly, staring to the side, “her you like.”

Eventually, Sasha agrees that their small team could use more allies equipped with untraditional (often less than legal) skills, thus greenlighting the newly dubbed What The Ghost-chives collaboration. She then excuses herself to go get the actual archiving done, in case Elias drops by to provide unnecessary menacing supervision, while Melanie immediately departs to ‘scope out some measurements’, whatever that means, in hopes to trace the pattern of Jonathan’s activity.

“I can’t believe you are acquainted with Melanie King,” Tim marvels out loud.

“I’m not! We— I’m not sure what we are, exactly, but she’s more of a- a three-message industry colleague?” Martin replies uncertainly.

Tim huffs. “Only you can befriend a media celeb by accident.” He smirks enigmatically at Martin’s confused spluttering and promptly buzzes off to assault the Library for any ghost-related encyclopaedias.

Martin lags behind in the breakroom with Georgie, both of them sipping their respective teas in awkward silence — at least, awkward to Martin; he’s never been good at spotting when best to start or finish a conversation, preferring to come off as self-occupied rather than desperate for a helpful clue. Meanwhile, Georgie hesitantly bites her lower lip, as if holding back a long-formed question that scratches at the insides of her mouth like a frenzied cat.

“Are you—”

“Would you—” they stop simultaneously. Georgie shoots Martin a lopsided smile, and in spite of his crawling anxiety, Martin finds himself smiling back.

“You go on,” he says.

“Right. I just— I suppose I wanted to ask…” she sighs, rubbing her fingers self-consciously, blue-pink nails picking at the skin. “How is he? I mean, I get he’s not present and doesn’t talk, but I… I hoped you’d be able to tell if he was— in pain. Suffering.”

Martin clears his throat, the uncomfortable knot in his chest tightening. “I— I don’t know if I can attest to anything, really. On the occasions when we see his, erm, spirit, it— he’s just… there. Silent. Not reacting to us, minding his own business.” I’m not even sure he’s conscious, capable of thinking or expressing himself in the normal sense — whether he’s a person at all anymore, Martin doesn’t say. He wants to offer a realistic perspective, not a depressing one.

“I understand.” Georgie nods, sadness brushing at the corners of her lips, hiding in the clenching of her jaw and the upturn of her thick eyebrows. “It’s… Thank you, Martin. For looking and for caring enough to look. I— just, so many times I thought of calling him, asking how he’s doing, but I always talked myself out of it, you know? ‘Not the time, Georgie. He should apologise first, Georgie. Prioritise your own needs before helping others, Georgie.’ Fuck.”

Martin swallows, wondering whether his mother ever feels like reaching out to him before she ultimately dismisses the idea. She probably doesn’t.

“But none of it matters now, does it? I wasn’t there in the end; I wasn’t there when he was fading, wasn’t searching when he disappeared. He’s gone, and I only found out by pure luck because my girlfriend told me about her current investigation.” Georgie’s eyes are ablaze with anger — directed at herself, Martin realises abruptly, as much as at the bitter unfairness that befell Jonathan.

He isn’t in a position to give insightful commentary, but he’s good at sympathising. Too good, perhaps, one might say.

“If- if it’s any consolation,” Martin utters nervously, “he’s never blamed you. He admitted he had an, an inherent proneness to self-isolating. And you couldn’t have known — he suspected he might be in danger, but he didn’t alert you while he still had the chance. It’s not your fault, just- just unfortunate circumstances.”

Georgie doesn’t argue, though she also doesn’t look any further away from mentally kicking herself. With a promise to come back quickly, Martin ducks out into the office, bumbling about until he locates the item of interest standing innocuously on his desk. He returns brandishing it triumphantly like a battle prize torn from the jaws of defeat.

Upon seeing it, Georgie’s stunned expression grows stricken. “I remember those,” she says.

She takes the slightly dusty What The Ghost? mug from Martin’s hands, holding it gently as if it might break from her simply breathing at it. The mug is chipped at the rim, the amateur-style logo standing out against the plain white; it lacks staining and was obviously well-loved, though not used much for drinking tea or coffee.

“It was our starting line of merch, when we were still at uni. This one’s a try-out that’s never been made available to the wide public,” Georgie explains softly, visibly lost in the fond memories.

“It was found in his workplace,” Martin informs. “He must’ve kept it close. He cared about you, Georgie. He never stopped caring, and I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t have wanted you to blame yourself for what transpired.”

The woman turns to Martin with an open, attentive look, seemingly perceiving the whole of him in under a second and finding something within that brightens up her day.

“Thank you,” she repeats at last, with more emphasis. “You’re a very nice guy, Martin.” She examines the mug again, her thumb brushing over the word Ghost, the ‘o’ replaced with a silly cartoonish picture of one. “God knows Jon would’ve been lucky to have more people like you in his life.”

Statement of Jonathan Sims, regarding his childhood encounter with a true monster. Statement recorded by the subject, January 8th, 2016.

Side A.

I know there are monsters far scarier than those you may come across in the Archives. Most of the time, they behave like boring, ordinary people. Their faces are easily forgotten and lost in the crowd, but their actions stand out, unspeakable in their relentless cruelty.

These monsters are so much more terrifying — because they can appear perfectly human, when inside they are anything but.

I met a monster like that in my youth.

I’ve never told this story in its entirety to anyone, and even now, I am recounting my single most traumatic experience into a soulless machine, while sitting alone in my office. Just a mirror of my life, really. I suppose I… would like to go away knowing there’s a chance, however minuscule, that someone might find this and preserve a part of myself in their memory. Such a human desire, to be remembered. To have proof that you didn’t roam this earth in vain.

I am almost gone, in spite of my efforts, and I feel a burning need to commit my last words to tape. To try and explain where it all went so horribly wrong. Any reservations of mine about this confession are drowned out by the simple fact that I won’t be here to witness the consequences. I’d be ashamed of my cowardice, but, well. So long as my legacy exists, I’m not at liberty to choose what it is.

It happened… oh, more than twenty years ago. I lived with my grandmother in a detached house in Bournemouth, surrounded by a half-fallen fence. We had a backyard with an old black oak that I often climbed and a small pond overrun by tadpoles every May. I was as content as a child left to their own devices can be, if a bit too curious and prone to wandering for my own good.

Still, cut off from regular human interaction, never on the same wavelength as either my peers or adults, I often felt… misunderstood. Dismissed. Unbeknownst to me, I yearned for companionship and a sense of belonging — things so simple yet crucial to our species — and yearning, as I was about to learn, leaves a man dangerously exposed.

You see, in the summer before my fourth grade, I made a very special… friend.

He was an old man living down the street in a shabby but clean two-story house, whom I met during one of my visits to the local charity bookshop. I don’t know how long he’d been our neighbour since he barely went outside, citing his age as a reason for his poor mobility and the residence’s subsequent state of disrepair. He was thin, with long bony limbs and clever spindly fingers he used for stitching and weaving beautiful patterns. Weaver, I called him after he’d shown me his work. He played along, avoiding telling me his real name.

He was far superior to my classmates and teachers, I thought, because, unlike them, he always listened. I could talk about insects, rare diseases, sugar production in the 18th century or why Tommy Begwind from next door was an absolute arse, and I’d receive the man’s full attention. His questions and interest in my life didn’t feel indulgent or feigned, and though I realised it was probably due to the man’s own loneliness, I was glad. I didn’t mind occasionally helping him around in exchange for a few hours in Mr Weaver’s company, spent either conversing or quietly sitting next to each other — me reading and him knitting.

He was kind to me. I was desperate for encouragement, which I never got in abundance from my reserved grandmother and which this witty old gentleman gave so freely. I didn’t tell anyone about our friendship. It was my intimate secret, my treasure held close to the heart, and sharing it, I was convinced, would have ruined the only solid good thing I had exclusively to myself.

This illusion of safe haven had lasted for three months, all the while I’d mistakenly believed affection couldn’t possibly co-exist with atrocity.

In September, my friend hired a kid slightly older than me to tend to his garden. Needless to say, we didn’t get along. Whether it was jealousy or the simple fact that he was a bit of a bully, I silently resented the teenager and evaded him during my stays at the house. This resentment, ironically enough, turned out to be my saving grace.

One day, I was heading towards Mr Weaver’s home after school, holding a book in front of my face, when I knocked into the new hire. He sneered at me, said something rude that I don’t recall and slapped the book out of my hands. I shouted and tried to push him, but he was taller and merely brushed me off, walking away at a brusque pace.

Unfortunately, he happened to turn the corner leading up to Mr Weaver’s, and I knew I had to wait until my bully left again. I didn’t want Mr Weaver to think me childish and petty, or worse, unable to defend myself.

Thinking back, the older kid didn’t have his tool bag, I remember, and was probably going back to retrieve it. He wasn’t even supposed to be working that day, but maybe something had come up and he urgently required the instruments.

His fate was sealed by just a petty twist of luck. A complete accident.

From afar, I saw the door close behind him. I waited, pacing up and down the lane for what felt like an eternity. I managed to entertain myself by watching a group of small grass frogs crossing the wide path, then by finding several sturdy sticks to play with and finally, when I was starting to give up, by leafing through my poor, abused book.

No one appeared, the heavy autumn air disturbed only by my breathing and shuffling, occasionally intermingled with the pages turning.

As the sun began to set, I packed my things, exasperated, and went to check. I stood on my toes, hands coming up to grab the protruding window pane, and peeked inside. Dark room, no lights on. No sounds of talking. Several minutes passed with me keeping still, half-hoping for Mr Weaver to venture in and see me, to decide he’s had enough of the other kid and kick him out. There was no sign of either of them — the house stayed dead quiet.

I rounded the corner and knocked on the front door, receiving no answer. Were they playing at something? Pretending there wasn’t anyone home? I thought it stupid because I knew for a fact Mr Weaver never left his house without prior notice, and I literally saw my perceived rival go in hours ago. Still, it’s not like I could force them to cease this charade. My boredom was increasing exponentially the longer I spent there, tied to the house akin to a desperate dog waiting for its forgetful owner.

That damned, godawful day had been rather anticlimactic from my point of view, really. If there was a subtle sign I should’ve been afraid of, I must’ve forbidden myself from exploring or encoding it in my memory. My stubbornness was subdued by a strange, unexplainable feeling of anxiety and eventually, I grew restless and left, not suspecting anything was wrong aside from my ruined visit.

I didn’t realise until much later that I could no longer summon in my mind the other boy’s name.

.

..

…

This is the end of side A, please turn over to side B.

Sasha didn’t joke when she said the second tape was leaning into much heavier stuff, and Martin is… understandably reluctant to listen to the final part. Listing content warnings obviously wasn’t at the top of Jonathan’s priorities, but Sasha would’ve told Martin if there were any graphic descriptions of murder or child kidnapping upcoming, wouldn’t she? Wouldn’t she?

Martin really, really hopes so.

There’s a distinct dividing line running between Jonathan the Head Archivist, who glimpses at Martin through the tapes, notes and meagre possessions, and Jonathan the Annoying Non-Corporeal Presence, who apparently considers it part of his daily duties to tramp on Martin’s shaky peace of mind. Thinking of the former one leaves Martin serene and melancholic as if he’s caught the tail end of a modern Greek tragedy (nevermind that he’s also still bearing a tiny innocent crush feeding on Jonathan’s deep voice, cute angular face, stuffy academic vibe, neat handwriting, and— yeah).

The Ghost Jonathan, on the other hand, causes only an ever-changing yet uninterrupted flow of frustration. Martin even catches himself humming ‘What is this feeling? Fervid as a flame, does it have a name? Yes, loathing. Unadulterated loathing!’ once or twice when washing the cups in the breakroom.

How to reconcile these two warring Jonathan aspects is… is a problem for a future Martin, thanks for asking.

He isn't a conflict seeker, by any means, but the poltergeist situation is propelling him to set some boundaries to stick to, unprecedentedly. It turns out to be easier than expected, once he's started. The archivist isn't Martin's mother; he doesn't have eyes to size him up disapprovingly, nor a mouth to say that it would've been surely better for everyone if Martin had simply stayed a girl. Is it strange to be less intimidated by a damn ghost than one's own parent? A question worth posting on Reddit, no doubt, if not for the sake of helpful feedback, then at least to elicit a laugh or two.

It's Tuesday the twenty-first, four days after Georgie and Melanie's invasion, when Martin gives in and writes on a blank statement form with a bold red marker:

'HANDS OFF MARTIN'S PROPERTY!'

After a second of pondering, he adds below in smaller letters, to avoid possible misinterpretation:

'INVISIBLE HANDS SPECIFICALLY!!!'

He underlines the warning, circles it three times and tapes it to the desk lamp. Jonathan's Oxford education has to be enough to comprehend a couple of unfinished sentences, for Chrissake.

On Wednesday, Martin is the first to come in after Sasha. He circles around the stacks to his workplace, puts his backpack down, and that’s when he notices a bright post-it stuck to the desk. His immediate thought is, at least Sasha doesn’t criticise her assistants face-to-face in front of everyone. The beginnings of Martin’s failure-induced stress, however, are squashed upon reading the actual message in familiar neat cursive:

Borrowed a gel pen, will return. Sorry.

God knows why he doesn’t babble about this to the others. A tiny part of him is somehow convinced it’s a prank. A Tim Special served on a silver platter to make fun of Martin’s crush — all because last Sunday, Martin had the foolishness to confide in his friend during a moment of drunken, rose-tinted, maudlin weakness. Turns out, beauty is clearest to a mind slightly muddled, especially the tragic unattainable beauty of a lost soul. Martin’s pretty sure he dedicated at least twenty minutes solely to describing Jonathan’s stunning nose bridge.  

Ow. Might be a while before he feels up to emulating the Regency poets again.

Later that day, Tim waltzes in with a look of wide-eyed innocence, never stopping to glance at Martin expectantly or ask him any probing questions. Almost like he had nothing to do with the cryptic message at all. As they pack for lunch, Martin pauses to reflect on the now-crumpled note in his drawer. He picks up the marker again and issues another warning:

‘NO PERMISSION = THIEVERY. WILL BE PROSECUTED.’

Satisfied, he nods and follows Tim out of the Archives, returning at one-thirty sharp to a new green post-it. It’s a single word carefully wrapped around a pile of pens, pencils and cheap plastic rulers, some of which Martin thought long lost even before the apparition made itself known:

Apologies.

Huh. Look at Ghost Jonathan, having manners and such.

“Can you tell me more about Jon?” Martin asks, bribing Georgie with a cup of tea she’s developing an addiction to. It’s a reasonable bet — unlike the rest of Martin’s convoluted existence, tea is safe and simple. Tea doesn’t steal his stationery and then apologise when confronted directly, nor does it try to drive him out of the basement, intentionally or not. Tea is predictable; it’s people Martin usually has problems with.

Georgie turns off the phone to meet his curious gaze. “Is there anything specific, orrrr?..”

Martin prays to the forces of sky, sea and nature that he doesn’t blush as he says, “No, er, just… general trivia? If- if you can remember. Doesn’t have to be big. I want to…” he mulls the sentence over, stretching and snapping it into place until it feels right. “I want to get to know a bit of him. It’s what he wanted, yeah? T-to be known. It would be nice, I think, to honour his will.” His dying wish.

“Uhm, okay,” Georgie responds, sliding the tea cup closer to herself. Mission success. “I don’t think he drank much coffee? He… I guess he hated it. And we watched a lot of sea life documentaries together, especially about turtles. I even have a turtle plushie somewhere, though I’ve no clue whether it’s mine or his.”

Martin’s mouth forms a shy adoring smile upon picturing Serious Head Archivist Jon defeated by the cuddliness of a cute sea turtle.

“What else? We frequently ordered Thai. Oh! We went to every rock concert in the area, and he despised the crowds but always insisted on staying till the end out of due diligence. I now have a whole box of souvenir band T-shirts that I’m too lazy to sort through.”

Jon eating spicy Thai with chopsticks. Jon passionate about documentaries. Jon hating coffee. Jon sweating and swearing at a rock concert, travelling to and from while browsing media. Jon, pedantic and strange and wonderful in the most human way, making Martin’s heart ache with the impossibility of meeting him.

“We were…” Georgie continues. “I- I don’t know. I hope we were good to each other. He obviously had tons of personal baggage, and maybe that’s why our tandem fell apart, but… but the beginning and middle were nice, I believe, and I still wanted him in my life no matter what.” Georgie sighs, taking a sip of her tea in regretful contemplation.

Martin worries the button on his jumper, unsure if he should console her. “I’m sorry,” is what he lands on.

“No, no.” Georgie shakes her head. “No, it’s grand, actually. I need to remind myself of the pain this loss causes me: this is how I know Jon was someone worth caring for. I can’t allow my memories to fade, not again.”

Martin thanks and pats her on the shoulder sympathetically, an intention already stirring in his mind as he departs. In the evening, he is the last to go home, lingering at his desk, hoping to spot a whiff of cold weather or a transparent floating appendage to confirm that Ghost Jon is around. Of course, the one time Martin wishes for the signs of the other’s presence, there are none.

He gathers his courage and loudly clears his throat.

“You know,” he begins with confidence he doesn’t normally have, “I’ve noticed you never once showed yourself with Georgie present. She is here for your sake. You could at the very least extend some courtesy and prove to her you’re not completely gone.”

 The answer is, predictably, silence.

“She’s sorry, okay? You can be angry or sulking or whatnot, but you shouldn’t put it out on her. She misses you. Leave her a message, I know you bloody well can.”

Martin is almost ready to ditch the plan and, on the off-chance a janitor wanders in, pretend he didn’t just berate an empty room… when a pencil at Tim’s workplace is infused with a sudden desire to move. It steadily flies over to the shocked Martin, its tip landing on a blank paper on top of a stack. Then, it starts to write, the paper turning half a circle as the text completes itself.

I’d rather she didn't see this.

Martin snaps back to awareness and frowns at the approximate height of the ghost's face. “Well, tough luck. She knows you’re stuck like this, and she has every right to—” and the pencil is off producing squiggles again.

Please. There isn’t much left of me for her to recognise.

Don’t make her remember the last of me as this mockery of a being.

She doesn’t deserve it.

Martin’s expression softens, as does his voice, intonation wobbling on the words, “Wouldn’t you like to be with your loved one even if they weren’t themselves? To see them suffering is unbearable, but to know and never be there for them? That’s worse.” Ask me how I know. Actually, no, don’t.

The pencil stills for a second, apparently cornered by this thought-provoking statement, before resuming its pace.

I am not suffering, really.

"Don't you?"

The next reply is scrawled hesitantly, having lost its previous hastiness. 

It is of no significance.

I don't matter. This thought pattern all too well resonates with Martin's own when he went through a particularly nasty episode in his early twenties. 

I am no one to her.

I am alone in this.

Please forget we ever had this dialogue.

Leave me to rot.

"Georgie told me you had a cat together," Martin interrupts, his brain cells frantic to generate a distraction. Don't let Jon slip away. "She even sent me the photos."

The pencil is angled almost questioningly as it writes out, The Admiral.

"Yes, yep," Martin says. "She might try to, erm, bring him here? I mean, I don't suppose he cares about the permanence of human states much. You won't destroy any of his preconceptions if you meet him as is."

The pencil has several false starts, crossing them out furiously:

I don't care

It's probably

I'd be better off

Finally, it settles on, I'll think about it.

Martin never cursed fate harder for the inability to hug air. Its two particular cubic metres in front of him seem cowed and very much in need of a firm embrace. Who gives a damn about one more violation of the Institute's rules if it can elevate the burden of a sad lonely specter.

When PC Hussain shows up again, the Archives are more prepared.

“Are you having a Cluedo club meeting?” is her opening sarcastic phrase.

The universe is evidently in lifted spirits this Friday because Melanie sees the cop arriving at the reception and manages to send a text alert just in time for Tim to be strategically manoeuvred into the document storage. Sasha hurries to pick up a stack of random paper to look busier, Georgie assumes a researcher’s pose at Tim’s desk, and Martin… Martin opens Candy Crush on his phone and tries to look smart while dragging colourful lollipops across the screen.

“Sorry?” Sasha’s groomed eyebrow flies up, forming an inverted checkmark.

“I hear you’ve got two more people joining your mystery society, all for the sake of… how did you put it? Finding Tim’s friend’s mobile?” PC Hussain demonstratively assesses Georgie, whose attention is fixed on a morbid illustration from a ghost forum printout.

“Yep,” Georgie replies, not glancing up.

Martin nods, face pensive, while diligently swapping an orange caramel for a red jellybean to get four in a row.

“Are you back with a warrant?” Sasha enquires casually, and Martin’s breath stutters.

PC Hussain’s stance is rigid, not betraying a single emotion. She glances around as if expecting to catch a couple of stray criminals tucked away in the nearest folder.

“Can we speak in private?” she addresses Sasha, who purses her lips and gestures invitingly to the Head Archivist’s office. The door closes behind the two women, and Martin’s phone happily jingles with a level-up.

He turns to Georgie, both of them shrugging wordlessly, when a sudden booming crash from the storage makes Martin jump and bang his knee on the desk. The noise is momentarily followed by Tim’s outraged yell.

“Oi! Give it back, you transparent fuck!”

Martin winces at Georgie apologetically, hoping Sasha will be able to explain the ruckus to their visitor somehow.

It’s probably telling that when PC Hussain ends up breaching police confidentiality to aid their investigation, Martin on instinct almost suggests adding her to the WhatsApp group chat. Their full of illegally obtained evidence, detailing oodles of downright marginal activity, offensively unprofessional and resolutely not-cop-friendly group chat.

Mmyeah. Just a regular fun working day at the Magnus asylum.

He should apply for a pay rise. He won’t, but the principle of the thought’s got to count nonetheless.

Chapter Text

Personal notes of Jonathan Sims, regarding his final days. Date unknown.

Dear               ,

              my apologies                             might be the last                     I ever write.

                           didn’t help, really, and it took a lot out of me to brave searching for answers. I’m not certain whether I want to try again; whether I even wish to be helped.

I am a realist. It makes sense for me to experience hopelessness as I am on the verge of being unmade, haven’t conversed with another person in weeks, and                     investigate this phenomenon is wearing thin. It’s logical to not be particularly thrilled at the oncoming prospects; it’s logical to assume my historical place in the world isn’t going to be

              there               and it’s                                     absolutely no meaning

                      anymore. I know I used to be important to someone — baffling as it is — but the memory is hazy and distant, like a story from someone else’s life.

                        self-isolation always hung                        the outskirts of my life         

         descending upon my shoulders effortlessly, like a well-worn cloak.

It was hard making friends as a kid, and most of them didn’t tend to stick around. At least back then, in the absence of support, I could comfort myself with a thought that I was thriving as an individual                               somehow.   But a man of science must relent when presented with sufficient evidence, and, though it pains me immensely, I now come to the conclusion I was never truly special.

                        slowly detaching pieces of myself from reality until

        anything left to suggest I ever existed.

In the quietest moments                 imagine what would’ve happened if I had enough courage to go through with an official evaluation. I imagine having to exaggerate and assemble a shaky tower of arguments, hoping it would be picked up by                           medical criteria. I imagine getting rebuffed and having to settle for an unpleasant realisation that no neurological difference is to be blamed for my own faults, which rest solely in my incompetence, lack of self-control and shameful, childish                          out.

                           attempted advocating for my unwell-being, it sounded to my ears as if I was   desperately                             excuse, a permission                 while maybe working hard and going an extra mile was just what I required.

             alas,

                   brought me nothing except an undesired promotion and an empty contact list.

Perhaps, I was so awful at being a person              the universe has finally had enough. Like an artist stepping away to glance at a full picture and, upon consideration, painting over an odd brush stroke. Perhaps, occupying a space in the world requires more effort than I was able to conjure.

     It feels like I should struggle more. It feels like these thoughts do not belong

Inevitably, I find myself                                              same question

                                                 was the point of my existence?

I don’t leave behind outstanding                        mourning family                      or grateful colleagues — not even a                       and so my life comes down to a very simple truth: I couldn’t allow myself to trust people, and in the end,

                                                                  I stand completely

                                                                                                  alone.

“Curse you, unjust and bothersome existence!” Tim almost weeps in anguish as he crawls under the table to collect the last of the scattered Jenga bricks. He had been close to winning for the third time in a row, and the wail he let out when the tower collapsed could easily rival Sauron’s final cry at the fall of Barad-dûr.

Melanie wordlessly smirks, arms crossed, and Martin sighs.

He’s hiding behind Poems of Passion, carefully looking over the pages like a ruler looks over the walls of a besieged city at the unfolding disaster. With the three of them on ghost-sitting duty and Sasha away for a department head meeting, there was no one to stop Tim from organising a board game table. 

A pen next to Martin comes to life along with a post-it from a new pack he bought for the occasion. It tilts at the same peculiar angle as before — left-handed. Martin fights to suppress a smile.

“You seem to be getting on with Melanie,” he comments. The ghost exhales breezily, as if admitting defeat, and Martin’s shoulder is immediately doused in cold air.

She did say that to see some real ghostbusting, I only needed to annoy her enough.

We should’ve hired her ages ago, Martin thinks, mourning all the hours spent clawing pencils out from under the hazardous, creaky bookcases held together by spit and sellotape. He watches as two invisible hands pedantically fold his messy papers into a neat pile — and feels the initial annoyance fade into amusement.

“Is this your doing?” Martin nods at Tim, who, in all honesty, had it coming. The ghost twirls the pen for a second before grabbing another post-it.

Admittedly, I was getting awfully tired of his bragging.

It’s so petty, so childish and unexpected that it makes Martin want to apologise. For his own irritation and harsh judgement, for dismissing Ghost Jon as a poor imitation of a man. He wants to hold Ghost Jon’s hand to his chest and say that it doesn’t matter whether one of their hearts stopped beating — they are both still clinging to life as best as they can.

Instead, he simply throws his head back and laughs, freely and loudly, not caring that he’s supposed to keep quiet to avoid getting dragged by Tim into his home-brew crazy version of Mafia.

Occasionally, unaware of what came before this moment, Martin will look around and realise he is asleep.

There’s nothing explicitly wrong with the world constructed by his tired brain — no clocks going backwards, no inscriptions bent into peculiar shapes, no objects defying the laws of gravity. Yet as he is filling out papers at his desk in the Institute’s basement, not a soul in sight, a timid suspicion creeps up on Martin and settles in his chest a solid certainty.

He cautiously gets up to stretch his legs, neither numb nor hurting, which only further proves his dreaming state — nothing ever hurts in Martin’s dreams. The door to Sasha’s office is closed, and the kitchenette entrance behind Martin is dark and blurry. He switches his gaze to where the founder’s portrait usually hangs, grey hair slicked back and hands clasped judgementally. To Martin’s relief, Jonah Magnus seems to be missing from his surveillance point, leaving behind only a framed picture of a cloudless sky.

Must be unavailable outside the work hours, Martin supposes. Good for him, honestly — the old fart would probably start spinning in his grave the moment Martin’s fantasies turn pink and not-hetero-friendly.

He approaches the storage, which has somehow migrated to where the stairs should be. The door opens before Martin can think of grabbing the handle, suddenly revealing—

…an endless white beach and a foggy ocean several paces ahead. Martin breathes in an imagined odour of salt and steps out, blinded by an invisible sun, shoes drowning in the fine sand. He stops abruptly upon hearing a crunch — sensing it, to be precise, the sound in the dream too distorted to comprehend.

He glances down and sees that, like a complete moron, he stepped on someone’s piece of paper. Might have been important, too. Martin picks it up — a leaf torn out of a notebook, ink smudged and impossible to read; he notices another leaf half-buried slightly to the left, and another like it, crumpled and abandoned down the lane. Now that he pays attention, Martin sees yellowing paper fragments sticking out every couple of feet all over the beach, some of them licked off by the hungry waves. He bends over and starts gathering as many as he can, carefully stacking them and brushing off the dirt.

He comes to when the tip of his right shoe touches the ocean, hand reached out to snatch a note floating away. Martin immediately jumps back, shaking the moisture off, and straightens. He can’t go too far into the ocean, he knows. The waters are often turbulent, not to mention unpredictable, and the risk is higher than people choose to think. Despite this, Martin’s curiosity is piqued by a dark spot hovering above the surface a mile or so away from the shore. A human figure.

They are too far for Martin to distinguish the exact features, and he desperately wants to come closer, to ask whether they got lost or need help, whether they know who all these papers belong to — but the wind is getting stronger, high waves crashing against the beach, while Martin stands rooted to the spot, glasses held with one hand and papers with another. The figure can’t possibly move away in the short time between Martin’s blinks, but it is inevitably, undeniably getting dimmer and smaller.

Martin, heart seized by pure panic, feels himself yelling, muscles strained, lips forming a single soundless word. Either his voice is stolen by the wind, or his ears are too stuffed to pick up on his own screams.

Don’t go. Surrounded by the descending fog and incoming water, Martin shouts or simply wishes, loud and desperate. Wait for me. Please, please don’t go.

He slips on the wet sand and, before a cold wave can swallow him whole, he wakes up.

Though he has to leave for work in five hours, there’s no chance Martin will manage to drift back to sleep. Squinting at the dark ceiling, he tries to summon the rapidly vanishing bits of the odd dream and commit them to memory — which feels frustratingly like pouring water down a sieve. There is an important puzzle piece he cannot quite grasp, and Martin gets a tingling impression that it’s somehow connected to Jonathan.

God, now the man’s haunting him at night, too.

Martin reluctantly puts on a bathrobe over his sports bra, stretched T-shirt and pants, feet sliding into a pair of worn blue slippers. After fetching a tape recorder borrowed from Tim and filling his favourite mug with nice Earl Grey (two sugars, no milk), Martin flips the tape to side B. Finally, he opens Jonathan’s photo on his phone and rests it against a sugar tin — Martin’s always found it easier to tie verbal information to a face, that’s all. No other reason.

He sighs, puts in his headphones and, with no small amount of trepidation, presses play.

Statement of Jonathan Sims, regarding his childhood encounter with a true monster. Statement recorded by the subject, January 8th, 2016.

Side B.

It’s odd, surviving a brush with something horrendous; knowing the danger came close enough for its breath to reach you, yet its hands never squeezed your throat.

The police never found anything, of course. There were wanted posters on every shop window and café door, two inconsolable parents searching for their child no one remembered.

I tried to offer what information I had, even ventured to Mr Weaver’s at night to gather some clues. His house stood silent, its door unlocked, the insides covered with a thin layer of dust. His dressing gown, the one he always threw over his shirt and breeches, hung limply from the back of his favourite armchair. A bouquet of dead marigolds stood on a table nearby. There was a pile of charred cloth pieces in the fireplace, though whether they were burned evidence or remnants of Mr Weaver’s craft works, I couldn’t tell.

I found a worn shoebox under the bed on the second floor. It was full of blank plastic cards and papers, several of them tucked into holders or stacked on top of each other. It seemed to be a collection of sorts, some of the smooth white rectangles obviously years older than others, scratched and yellowed from handling. No pictures, post-its or signatures to suggest their value to the owner.

At the very bottom, I discovered what sends shivers down my spine to this day whenever I think of it. It was a folded school class photo, cropped around a small boy in the front row. Hair brushed and uniform perfectly ironed, he wore a hesitant smile, holding a book in his lap.

Abandoned and betrayed by a stranger I believed to be my friend, I stood there like a fool. Choking on a realisation that never before was I so terrified of looking at my own face.

I tried to explain to my grandmother, when she came to take me off the officers’ hands, that an old man who lived in a two-story house down the street took the missing boy. She wasn’t pleased with what she saw as my mean-spirited fantasies, but she did share one… intriguing detail.

‘The end-of-the-lane house used to be Mr Awbrey’s,’ she said. ‘He lived alone and rarely went outside. He disappeared one day — as people with dementia often do, wandering off and never finding their way back. It’s been almost three years since.’

She thought I must’ve found a photo when snooping around his belongings and, though she couldn’t get me to confess, I was forbidden from approaching that house again. I didn’t have a visual description of Mr Awbrey, but I understood very clearly then that he was probably thin, often dressed in a shirt and breeches, with kind eyes and clever dexterous fingers.

I also understood very clearly that whomever I met as Mr Weaver, he was not, had never been Mr Awbrey.

If pressed, I’d argue that Mr Awbrey left behind a costume of his identity, and someone, something else came to try it on. I wouldn’t be surprised if his entire character, down to the smallest gestures and mannerisms, was stolen. Yet whenever I pointed at the mask, people only recalled its previous owner — as if the same mask couldn’t be worn by different entities.

It’s odd… seeing you were led into a death trap and escaped because there was a person a damn bit unluckier than you.

I cannot be grateful for my miraculous salvation because it would mean being grateful for someone else dying in my stead. And I cannot help but wonder whether my current situation… my gradual disappearance… is a direct result of me staying alive that day, of getting to experience the world, of being constantly vigilant and fearful — only to make the end so much more painful for myself and sweeter for the one who inherits my face.

If you’re still here, if you’re still listening… I beg you to believe me. Should you, after all this, meet a Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of The Magnus Institute, don’t let it trick you.

I was him first. I wore my skin ahead of anyone, and I was the first to make my voice tremble or go quiet as it did. I was the original possessor of my beliefs and awful habits. I tried to make the best of me, and often failed, because no one’s ever tried to be me before. I was here first, and I will cling to this knowledge until it’s the last thought I can conjure.

I apologise for not giving you the answers you probably wish for. But thank you… for staying and letting my words fill the air. Permitting a part of me to resonate within the physical world. I hope you can forgive my unhelpful desperation.

Statement… ends.

.

..

…

This is the end of tape, please rewind.

“I know it’s the wrong date and all, but please bear with us,” Martin says, chaperoning Jon to the dark kitchenette. His companion makes a sort of aborted gesture with his pen, urging him to continue.

As soon as they cross the threshold, lights come on, and Martin has to squint at the sudden attack of colours and noise.

“SURPRISE!”

At least, Jon doesn’t risk a cardiac arrest, if the stories are to be believed.

Tim is wearing three party hats, one of them on his chin, arms outstretched and grinning proudly like the world’s happiest albatross. Sasha’s usual glasses are replaced with a pair of plastic flowers, her googly-eyed earrings and axolotl jumper really helping bring the look together. Melanie doesn’t seem too different from her ordinary self, apart from pink hair and a slightly less wrinkled flannel shirt. Georgie has her dreads up in a bun, arms covered in bracelets and supporting a fluffy, incredibly smug ginger cat. This fella must be The Admiral.

There are multiple strings of paper flags and fairy lights crisscrossed under the ceiling, and the vast majority of the table is hidden under an alarmingly large square cake with way more candles than is advisable for a place full of very old, extremely flammable paper.

“We, uh…” Martin scratches the back of his head, hoping to meet Jon’s untraceable gaze. “We know your birthday was in September, and since you missed it… we figured you’re kinda owed a do-over?.. It’s a bit late notice, and you can’t exactly leave the basement, or even… do most things people often do on their birthday, I guess, but… we wanted to show that we see you. Not— not, like, physically! Or in a creepy way. It’s more of a metaphorical, erm—”

“Yeah, Marto, I think he gets it.” Tim smiles, and Martin gratefully shuts up. “The best part is the cake, obviously, because I spent half of yesterday evening perfecting the dough! Vegetarian, no nuts, but I damn well hope you can stand gluten.”

Georgie comes up to Jon’s approximate location, finally seeing for herself what he is (or, rather, isn’t). She soothingly pets The Admiral, whose paw with great mistrust reaches towards the floating pen.

“Hi,” Georgie says, gentle and sad, searching the air for a hint of the archivist’s face. Such complete material absence must be hard on her. “Happy birthday, Jon. Here’s my present.”

She brings the cat closer as the latter startles and huffs from the drop in temperature created by an ethereal presence. Ten seconds are spent with bated breath, everyone preparing for Jon to decide that the whole thing is not worth his while and bolt, never to be heard from again.

“Go on, you sea turtle.” Georgie rolls her eyes, though her teasing sounds good-natured. “I didn’t bribe Rosie with chocolate for nothing.”

Martin watches, fascinated, as The Admiral’s fur is disturbed — hesitantly, little by little; like someone meeting a cat for the first time is threading their fingers through its coat, afraid it might contain a tiny self-destruction button. The Admiral bristles initially, probably from the icy fingers intruding on his bubble of warmth, but quickly settles and starts to rumble similarly to a well-oiled engine in nice weather.

And then, something amazing happens. A cloud of dust or snow seemingly starts to envelop the cat’s back, but as it condenses and gains sharper details, the cloud becomes the outlines of two familiar translucent hands. They move carefully from The Admiral’s head down to the beginning of his tail, stopping and scratching in all the right spots, becoming bolder and lengthening the contact with every brush.

Martin’s never heard of cat petting breaking an evil curse in a fairytale. He supposes there’s something truly poetic about small, inconsequential things chipping away at the big mountain of doom. Jon, noticing the change, disappears the pen somewhere (into a secret fifth dimension, apparently) and turns his hands over in apprehension. He shakes and flexes them, still blue and transparent, yet refusing to fade, then points at Martin.

Martin’s brain takes a moment to catch up. “Huh?”

Jon points at him again, with emphasis, then positions his hands vertically, palms-in, and performs an odd grinding-wheel motion. Finally, he contorts his left index finger into a hook and pauses, waiting for a reaction. Oh, Martin wants to smack himself, of course.

As he frantically scrambles to dig up his rusty knowledge of BSL, Tim, once more, deigns to save him from further embarrassment.

“He asks whether you speak sign language,” Martin’s coworker explains cheerfully, tapping his hearing aid. “I’ll translate, but I demand two extra custard puddings for my efforts.”

“How strange,” Jon speaks in Tim’s voice. “The only wish that’s been on my mind every day for the last year… The most impossible, distant dream… Fulfilled so easily.”

It’s well after they’ve eaten all the strawberry and vanilla cupcakes, leaving solely empty “classic” ones that Martin’s sure nobody actually enjoys. It’s a type of pastry usually donated to okayish bosses and unfavourable colleagues. There’s still champagne and apple juice left, but if Martin has to consume another drop or bite, he might just join Jon in the ultimate afterparty. 

He thinks back to the gift reception, smiling.

‘We’ve cleared out a table for you,’ Tim said. ‘Since you’re, like, basically our fourth teammate, and probably a more diligent worker than me and Marto combined.’

Jon signed rapidly, causing Tim to snort and, upon encountering several baffled stares, explain. 

‘The dumbass corrected me,’ he mimicked an RP accent. ‘Marto and I, m’lords and m’ladies. Oh, would you like some posh tea to match your skin’s pallor and the colour of your fine curtains?”

At this remark, Jon performed a crude gesture that required no further translation.

‘The computer has your old, reactivated profile set up, and I put what things of yours I could find in the top drawer,” Sasha added, stifling a laugh and dropping a key on the table. ‘Might have to push and pull a bit. The lock honestly belongs in an antiques museum.’

‘Aside from that, Sash put in a request for stationery funding.’ Tim dropped a square ten-pack of gel pens right into Jon’s open hands, followed by scissors, a roll of tape, three boxes of highlighters and so many notepads of various sizes and layouts that it was rather unclear whether Tim wanted to do Jon a favour or test the limits of Elias’s patience. ‘Count this as a personal gift from his doucheness, Mr Bouchard.’

‘And I,’ Melanie drawled out, ‘Don’t care for birthdays. Usually.’ She took out of a worn backpack and placed in front of her a stack of three cassette cases. ‘I talked to Georgie about your taste in music, figured ours were pretty similar. I, uh, had a vintage phase in my teens, and this is… kinda the last place in London where, like, you’ve more chances to stumble upon a tape recorder than a karaoke station, so.’

That sounded nice, having something for his hobby Jon wouldn’t have to borrow. Simply feed a coiled song to a machine any moment he wants and let the music unravel. Melanie’s Top-3 composers turned out to be Aerosmith, U2 and The Cure.

Tim’s main presents were the cake and free entertainment, and thus Martin came up last.

‘I, um,’ he stuttered, handing Jon a neatly wrapped bundle. Martin wasn’t a natural at packaging, but it was a relaxing, methodical process that showed the gift giver’s care and commitment. His mother never wrapped his gifts on the occasions she bothered to buy them, but Martin’s friends deserved to be appreciated in every aspect. ‘I don’t know if it’s silly, but whenever you’re in the room, it gets colder. I thought, well, in case you’re cold yourself, maybe you could use some help to keep you warm.’

Jon hasn’t stopped fiddling with the scarf since. It’s been crafted by Martin’s practised fingers over four late evenings, colours carefully picked out to match his perception of the former archivist — emerald and apple green, dark grey and muted brown — with a pattern of teeny tiny sea turtles. Martin’s best work to date, if he said so himself.

Jon pushes up his foggy, barely visible glasses (a relatively new development) and sighs. He is partially hidden behind a wall of journals and writing utensils, his plate empty. Martin idly wonders where the cakes disappear to when eaten by ghosts.

“What did you wish for?” he asks quietly, not really expecting a cohesive answer. Melanie and Georgie have retired to the couch and are lazily scrolling cat videos, while The Admiral naps in Jon’s lap. Tim and Sasha bicker about which marine life fact is the coolest (current leader: gay sex-changing predatory sea angels). 

Jon shrugs, defaulting to simpler communication with Tim half-listening. Nothing.

“That’s alright. Today’s been… a lot.” Martin’s gaze sweeps across the cramped kitchenette, taking in the decorations that began their slow descent, the empty cups and given-up-on desserts that will meet their end at the back of the commons room fridge. Despite it being someone else’s celebration, Martin’s the happiest he’s been in a while. “It gives you a perspective, I think. What the future could be, what to expect. You’re stuck with us, it seems, and we’re stuck with you.”

Jon inclines his head, conceding or maybe forming a response.

“Best part is,” Martin tells him, “you get to decide on a different wish. A bigger, brighter one that doesn’t revolve around surviving. I understand now you weren’t bothering us for the sake of it —” He sees Jon straightening and waves him off because he either says it this second or never. “—and you don’t have to agree, but I think, on some level, you needed us to pay attention. You wanted to be seen and acknowledged, and it took me an embarrassingly long time to realise it. For that… I’m very sorry, Jon.”

The ghost sits in silence for a small eternity, with no way to read his face. Martin forces himself to cease imagining quitting his job, changing his name and fleeing to Argentina, if only to escape the uncomfortable, strained atmosphere. 

At last, when the important thoughts have been thought, Jon puts his hand to and away from his chin in a gesture so recognisable that Martin almost weeps in relief. It was the second expression he learned after the word queer — because he has priorities.

It’s an expression he himself uses instead of a comma.

It’s an expression that, coming from Jon, throws gasoline on a fire of Martin’s affection.

Thank you.

Thursday night is an activity night, in the sense that it is perfect for certain unlawful activities. If Martin had a penny for every time he committed a crime with his co-workers on a Thursday, he’d have two pennies, which is… already way too many, in his opinion. God forbid they do a normal film screening with pizza, no sir. Sasha and Melanie are insane, Tim and Georgie are supportive of their partners, and so Martin, bless his poor dependable soul, is inevitably strung along.  

Currently, he, Melanie and Sasha are co-starring in their own Beat The Burglar remake, or, as Martin calls it privately in his head, Breaking-and-Entering: Reprise.

For the record, it’s pretty much Basira’s fault. PC Hussain, this stone-faced unbendable woman, stone-facedly informed Sasha on their private get-together last week that people often go missing. What they don’t do often, though, is leave a void of identity after — no clues, no friends, no character description, nothing to suggest the person even existed beside a pile of no-man’s belongings. In fact, reportedly, PC Hussain had encountered a case like Jon’s only one other time, when some Mr Doe had vanished from a closed hospital room.

“So no, we don’t have his phone. We don’t have a single piece of scrap that might shed light on this fuck-ass mystery. But you strike me as those stubborn types who dig and dig until they find a coffin, which is our first hope for progress in months. I’ll share what I know and won’t interfere with your Mrs Marple role play, but there isn’t much I can do to help.”

Whether Basira had shared her first name before or after this tirade, and where they’d gone out later on Friday evening, Sasha didn’t elaborate, though she did offer a conspirational smile.

“I had a laptop on me that morning. No idea what happened to it,” Jon signed during their first all-inclusive briefing, The Admiral purring on his knees and the gifted scarf wrapped around his half-present neck. Martin wondered whether Jon’s blue lips were due to the ghost thing or due to his body convincingly imitating a human-sized icicle. “I remember… I was recording when someone came down, and then my perception turned… hazy. Before you moved in and started assaulting my filing system, I was drifting through the fog, losing hours, days, even weeks.”

To think that for months, they’d ignored the main witness with him being right here. Ugh, Martin felt horrible.

“So, what you’re saying is,” Georgie enquired, delighted, “that you were annoyed into existence? Wow, you actually are a vengeful spirit.”

“Sure, okay, inadequate work performance can raise the dead,” Tim switched to speaking for himself. “Now back to biz. If the laptop wasn’t just stolen or thrown away — which I realise is a big ‘if’ — where else could we search?”

“Uh, I thought it was obvious?” said Melanie, her legs and arms crossed, freshly dyed purple strands tucked behind the ears. She had a new eyebrow piercing, too. “It’s always the white supremacist with a moustache routine. You guys warned us about Bouchard the moment we set foot in here, and his office is, like, your classic villain lair.”

“The locks would be harder to pick than the storage one,” mused Sasha, already nodding in approval. “We’ve got to make sure he doesn’t notice.”

Which is how they end up inside Elias’s office — with him very much not noticing because it’s well after midnight when every self-respecting, reasonable citizen is tucked in their bed. Martin is neither, proven by him being, once again, on the lookout.

“I hate you guys,” he exhales, peeking out into the corridor. His phone vibrates on silent mode in the back pocket. Martin takes it out and lowers the screen brightness to a minimum.

Timtim

3:05 AM

jon loggef into his acc rn

his last recording got (?accidentally?) uploaded

jan 9 2016

then deleted

we r trying to recover ittt

btw his home bg is some punk alt poster. who wouldve thunk

Me

3:07 AM

Okay, keep posted!

Melanie audibly goes through the papers (“Ew, invoices. Ooh, a personal letter to a Mr… Lukas, asking for five hundred quid… Must be nice to have a sugar daddy…”), then inspects a plaster bust on Elias’s desk (“Heya, Mr Magnus Junior.”), followed by an examination of every shelf and cabinet with a commentary track. Martin saw the interior thrice before: when he accepted the job, when he was transferred to the Archives and when some miserable sod ate Elias’s anniversary cake from the common fridge. Martin never found out the offender’s fate, and his tentative question to Elias about what anniversary, specifically, was answered with a glower and sardonically bitten out ‘divorce’.

Elias’s workplace has a decorated chandelier, multiple electric candleholders protruding from the walls, two large windows and a wide wooden desk complete with a luxurious leather seat. There are fancy velvet settees and monolithic bookcases planted on the perimeter, the kind that seems as if no one’s ever counted on using them for a purpose other than resurrecting the Victorian aesthetic. It all looks oppressively, dramatically rich.

“Does he have a trap door leading to a secreter, eviller cave this room serves as a front to?”

Probably not, Martin answers mentally, but stranger things have happened. Maybe Elias is exactly the sort to jump out from under the floorboards like a Scooby-Doo antagonist. Maybe he didn’t go home and is about to drop from the ceiling in the form of a large, carnivorous bat.

“Dunno how to say this, people without issues don’t hang massive gold-framed portraits to stare at their back.”

True. Martin is anxious from simply being in close proximity to the founder’s long-deceased face, its eyes seemingly tracking him around the office. He can’t imagine being productive with that thing observing him on a regular basis. At least Sasha turned it away to tinker with the safe behind.

“Wonderful human skull. The rest must be hiding in the man’s closet.”

Sheesh. Martin snorts, his phone buzzing.

Timtim

3:23 AM

mkay installed sashas hacker zip. did i mention shes a godsend?

took a minute but the file is almost…

almost……

allllmmoossstt……….

done!

we r so cool marto

like powerpuff girls. sash an me r blossom and u bubbles, obvs

georgie or mel can be buttercup

jon is ?? bullet idk

Me

3:26 AM

Congrats! I suppose this makes Elias HIM?

Timtim

3:26 AM

duh. same face, same heels, same propensity for amoral deeds.

also hates children, probably

Timtim is typing…

Martin slinks down the corridor and back to stretch his legs and check for unwanted visitors. The Institute is eerily quiet at night, the silence torn only by a grandfather clock ticking ominously in Elias’s office. So far, so good.

“Yesss,” Sasha whisper-yells, tugging the creaky safe door open. “Let’s see. Reports, docs, a bottle of perfume, weirdly... Huh. This is…” She rustles some folders or papers for a moment. “Erm. Guys, you might want to see this.”

Martin pulls away from the doorframe, gliding across the wine-red plush carpet to the far wall. His phone lights up with another notification.

Timtim

3:34 AM

right. so uh…

we listende to it

at the beginneing it was only static, then a voice drowsned in static, then more static

and it cut off

jons talking isnt processded on digital recordingx

so it mustve been who came down on his last day. and the timestanp lines up

then i fed the piece to audacity to reduec the noise and figeure out who it is

and holy fuck

Timtim is typing…

“What’s this crap?” Melanie asks, taking Sasha’s find and turning it over. Martin glances past her shoulder and doesn’t see anything extreme: Melanie’s nails scratch the edges of a dented foot-long metallic container with its lid off, the insides merely a pile of blank—

 Oh. Oh no.

The dots connect in Martin’s brain with the speed of Sherlock’s montage — blank cards, Jon’s childhood monster, wiped identity, Elias’s cryptic hints — and for a second, clumsy, ridiculous Martin ascends to the cosmic heights of epiphany.

Then the gravity of his realisation punches the breath out of him just as his gaze falls to Tim’s latest message. 

Timtim

marto, my dude

it’s rosie

Chapter Text

Rosie is a pleasant, if unremarkable, woman who's been a permanent fixture at the reception desk for as long as anyone in the Archives can remember. She has a forgettable face even by Martin's prosopagnosic standards: usually, he tries to grasp some distinct features such as glasses, dyed hair or a particular shade of lipstick... but with Rosie, his mind's eye sees only a smudged painting often found in a late artist's house, a generic form with blocked-in colours and no cutting edges of personhood.

Martin would say he likes Rosie, with her blouses and pencil skirts plain as IKEA furniture, except he hasn’t glimpsed anything prominent enough to like beyond her cardboard professionalism. And liking professionalism sounds too CEO for a school dropout who is friends with Tim Stoker.

As he gets off the morning bus at Theobalds Road and walks down to Chancery Lane, three minutes away from the institute, Martin tries to wrap his head around this sweet, agreeable woman potentially covering up a crime. And if so, that wouldn’t even be the worst part! At least there are measures to handle lawbreakers, but what do you do with an institute’s head who is also some kind of shapeshifting, people-eating monster?

Martin approaches the gates — guarded by a high-sitting pair of bronze owls, with a Latin inscription bent around the top — and immediately spots Melanie. She supports a column with her back, sucking on a cigarette and turning a cheap plastic lighter in one hand. Martin drops a brief greeting, and Melanie nods, taking the cigarette out of her mouth.

“They are consulting Basira right now, so I took a breather,” she explains. 

“Didn’t know you smoked,” Martin replies awkwardly — though, to be fair, he does most things awkwardly, so pointing it out seems excessive.

“I’m ditching nicotine for Georgie, but pot helps take the edge off.” That explains a skunky, herbal smell spilling out into the air. Melanie taps her enormous side pockets and pulls something out. “Wanna share?”

“Ah. No, thank you.”

“Mm, your loss.” The corner of a plastic bag, presumably with the rest of Melanie’s supply, casually dives back into her cargo trousers. “You know what’s funny? I think Georgie also made Jon quit smoking. She has that strange ability — brings out the soft side in us edgy losers.” Melanie sighs, head leaning against the cold metal. “I didn’t think I could be soft until I met her.”

A feeling of guilt, sudden and vicious, pierces Martin’s heart.

“I’m… I’m sorry for dragging you into all this. So much dread and danger, and the police have gotten involved… I’d never have predicted… What I mean to say is, if you and Georgie decide to walk away, we’ll understand. This investigation wasn’t meant to put your lives at risk.” 

Melanie squints at him, her tone surprised and nearly offended as she says, “You’re joking, right?”

Martin makes a non-committal sound and wrings his jumper sleeves. He avoids Melanie’s judging gaze, focusing instead on the line of smoke curling around her pale fingers.

“Look,” the woman begins exasperatedly, waving circles with her joint, “you may have let us in on the situation, but me and Georgie? We’re here of our own free will, and we’ll see this shitshow through to the end. It’s not just about the mystery anymore, it’s about taking down the asshole ripping off others’ faces.” 

“Okay, okay,” Martin chuckles, dousing his companion’s fiery temper. “But are you sure about staying? Who knows how far Elias’s web stretches — other department heads, his sponsors, the local government?”

“Piss off. I’m tired of powerful jerks trotting away scot-free, and I’m tired of good people suffering without retribution. I’m staying, and that’s final.”

“Well. Glad it’s settled, then.” Martin coughs, rocking on his heels. “No hard feelings?”

“Sure. I won’t tell Georgie if you don’t.” Melanie smirks, taking a long drag and puffing out a cloud away from Martin’s face. The latter frowns in thought.

“Soooo…” he drawls, “it’s a matter of public protection now, is it?”

“Pretty much. But it’s also about beating Mr Smug Twatface with a barbed bat.” 

“Meh, that counts as a bonus action.” 

They return right in time for disappointment.

“I’m sorry, truly,” Basira says, pausing near the exit. “But cases can’t be built on hypotheticals, convenient as that would be. The tapes are circumstantial evidence at best, and any treasure hunting in Bouchard’s office will likely be turned against you.”

“Was it all for nothing, then?” Tim gestures irritably to encompass the Archives. “Weeks of research, and it’s at best circumstantial.”

“No,” Sasha replies steadily. “No, the picture needs but a few final pieces. A solid proof, a confession, a crime scene…”

“Maybe not a crime scene,” Martin mutters. Jon is currently roaming the storage, but he’d probably share the sentiment. The ghost now often makes his opinion known using gifted song recordings, to the point where Martin’s thoughts have started rhyming with Aerosmith.

Tim hums. “Maybe we can ask our Casper to testify.” 

“Ngh.” Martin’s eye twitches. “I doubt the court is that accommodating.”

“Right.” Basira coughs pointedly. “I’ll look into Bouchard and his assistant. Whatever you guys do, continue doing it; you’ve made more progress these two months than we have in two years. Just don’t be stupid about it. ”

She surveys the gathered party — two bookworms, two content makers and a fit clubber in polka dot denim — like one would unsupervised hatchlings. That’s fair, Martin supposes. He wouldn’t bet on himself either.

The officer shakes her head and sighs, pulling the door open. “Sweet Allah, how do I explain this to Daisy...”

Right after she leaves, instrumentals begin playing behind the paper-thin storage wall. Martin can’t help but chuckle at Jon’s impatience and rather vindicative choice of music.

‘ Well, I woke up this morning on the wrong side of the bed...’

As always, Sasha has a plan that doesn’t set off until after 6 pm. 

Predictably, Martin spends the day high-strung in anticipation and gets absolutely nothing done. Georgie leaves for several hours to work on her podcast while Melanie stays glued to her phone. Tim makes some odd remixes of his camera’s ghost footage using spooky sounds, Jon directing over his shoulder.

To think, they were strangers to each other months ago (well, except the Sasha-Tim duo, which is just a single entity controlling two bodies). Martin doesn’t know whether it’s by sheer luck, divine grace or a sinister manipulation that they’ve ended up here, united in their pursuit of justice. Actually, he doesn’t even know why Elias chose him to be an archival assistant, or how Gertrude, Jon and Rosie fit into all of this. 

Still, it’s comforting, on a certain level, to think people will miss him if Horrible Things He Doesn’t Like Imagining cut his existence short; that he might not have changed the world, but he’s changed someone’s world — and it matters.

His mother told him he wouldn’t amount to anything, and for years, her words rang true in Martin’s head. Not today, though. Yes, mum, we saved a person’s life, no biggie. I’m sure you have way more fun chewing synthetic jelly and playing Chickenfoot with ol’ Margaret who can’t resist coughing on her tiles.

He certainly intends to save more lives by stopping whatever Elias is using the Institute as a front for. Martin hopes Rosie doesn’t get caught in the crossfire, that she hates her boss more than she fears him and will, sort of… simply hand the incriminating evidence over.

Little has been simple about their mission so far, but a man can wish.

Also, he should start browsing vacancies, in case his job turns out to be an utter sham.

At 18:05, as Rosie begins packing, Sasha, Tim and Martin approach the reception desk like they’re about to order a twelve-course banquet right before the restaurant closes.

Martin feels a bit shaky. It’s time for Jon’s long-dead case to get some fresh blood, even if it’s donated painfully and unwillingly by a once-trusted colleague. Rosie is far from intimidating — she’s shorter and thinner than Martin, if anything — but in the absence of natural light, the ceiling lamps make her look paler and… longer, somehow.

Martin looks at her closely, guessing. How much does she know? Did Elias threaten her into silence, or was she already so fearful that he didn’t have to? She can’t be a violent person, surely. It’s doubtful anyone would tolerate Elias’s pervy moustache or obnoxious, condescending tone if they could just make him disappear.

Was she blackmailed, then? Generic face and bland style aside, Rosie’s still human. If she’s got secrets, Elias seems like the one who’d dig them up and keep them, polished and pristine, under his pillow. Martin can’t decide if he pities her or resents — irrational as it sounds — for caving in and hurting Jonathan. For allowing herself to be manipulated at the cost of another.

Rosie smiles politely, ignorant of Martin’s inner turmoil. “Good evening. Is everything alright?”

Sasha immediately takes charge. “Hello, Rosie. We found an interesting detail to discuss with you. Do you remember Jonathan Sims, former Head Archivist? Of course, you must, you were one of the last people to see him. Although you kindly informed the police you greeted him in the morning on January 9th last year, that wasn’t the complete story, was it? No.”

Tim nods along, arms crossed. He and Martin are here more for intimidation’s sake, to promote honesty and transparency in their interviewee. Gradually, Rosie’s smile slips off her face. She doesn’t look angry or ashamed, just tilts her head curiously to the side, and Martin wonders if she’s going to try and run.

“...with your voice recorded,” Sasha continues. “You could face legal action, Rosie, for tampering with the evidence and lying to a police officer. But maybe, just maybe, we can avoid that if you tell us what Elias wants.”

Being friends with a PC has its benefits, Martin supposes, though Rosie seems almost too relaxed for how much crap she’s in. Either it’s an act to put them off-guard or she doesn’t feel threatened in the least.

“We understand if you have concerns, but together we can put a stop to their cause. You won’t have to obey or get your hands dirty for Elias ever again,” Sasha concludes her speech. 

Rosie twitches. For a moment, Martin expects her to cry or laugh, but she just pulls her pink lips into a smile again, amused and pitying.

“You’re so kind, honey, so considerate,” she says like a disappointed parent, taking in the three of them standing amidst the empty hall. “My confused little cupcakes.”

She leans forward and whispers gently, her tone weightless as a shared secret, causing Martin to go cold, then hot all over.

“So sweet I could devour you.”

What happens next is so horrible that Martin forgets to breathe, let alone scream.

Rosie unfurls — there’s no other word for it. 

As if painted, her clothing sticks to the skin, which splits and tears like moist paper, opening into a dark profound nothingness. There are no organs, no contracting muscles and viscera — only the underside of a hollow, supple shell. Rosie’s delicate face peels off, exposing no cartilage or bone, but a gaping bloodless cavity. Her eyes vanish, leaving two black holes sitting in a mass of wrinkles just below her hairline. 

The fingers are her only part to move like it’s not empty.

Before Martin can produce a single elaborate thought, the sack of tissue Rosie’s been replaced with suddenly lunges forward, aiming for Sasha’s throat.

“Run! Oh shit, run, run!” Tim bellows, grabbing Sasha by the hand. Shaken from his stupor, Martin follows them. Bypassing the exit turnstiles, Tim swivels to the right and sprints towards the stairs.

Martin is already out of breath, chest constricting and head swimming, but the sudden sharp unwillingness to die is an excellent motivator. Rosie makes no sound besides a slap-slap of her hurried steps, which is almost worse than any screaming.

It feels like eternity passes, yet it’s over in an instant.

Tim leans heavily on the door to the Archives, pushing both Sasha and Martin before him. The trio reaches the bottom several steps at a time.

“Uh.” Melanie jumps off the table, Jon hovering nearby, and opens her mouth in confusion. She holds her phone horizontally, and they both have an earpiece in, a faint melody reaching Martin’s ear.

“Office!” Sasha yells, cutting off any questions. “Now!”

They all pile into Sasha’s office, the entrance door swinging open right as she turns the key. The walls shake, plaster dust peppering Martin’s jumper and hair. 

Melanie silently mouths, rubbing her shoulder, “What. The. Fuck?” 

Nobody answers her, too afraid of being heard.

“COME OUT, LITTLE SKINS. YOU WANTED TO TALK, SO LET US TALK.”

Rosie speaks, and it’s the most unsettling, piercing screeching Martin’s had to endure. Her voice, if it can be called such, changes tones between soft and commanding, tortured and happy. It sounds like a chorus in hell, an amalgamation of dozens of souls joined in a continuous burning agony. He wishes he couldn’t understand their words.

“WHO ARE YOU TO OFFER PROTECTION WHEN YOU CANNOT BEAR THE SIGHT OF MY TRUE FACE? LOOK AT IT! LOOK ME IN THE EYES AS YOU COWER!”

Martin’s gaze jumps from one face to the next. What are the chances others find Rosie’s arguments compelling enough to come out of their hiding? 

Which sounds ridiculous, of course. Sasha’s expression is focused and calculating, Tim’s seriousness paints him in an unrecognisable light — like he’s traded places with an unfunny, alternate dimension twin, — Melanie is visibly baffled and even Jon’s levitating glass frames manage to convey extreme bemusement.

“I KNOW HOW LONELY AND AFRAID YOU ARE. AFTER ALL, THAT’S WHAT BEING A PART OF THE ARCHIVES MEANS. FORGOTTEN, UNNAMED, CRUMBLING. LET ME SAVE YOU, LITTLE ARCHIVES. LET ME BECOME YOU.”

Jon frantically gestures at Tim whose responses match him in speed, though Martin only picks up on the words ‘escape’, ‘skin’ and ‘forever’. He finds that right now, he doesn’t appreciate those words in any context or order.

The man shivers, hearing Rosie move through the basement. Something slides and drags on the floor like a wet towel, which, disturbingly, might just be the noise produced by Rosie’s boneless, rubbery feet. She retreats into the kitchenette, still calling for them with a motherly exasperation as if she’s lost her children in a mall. The monster rifles through the cupboards, banging pots and mugs, ripping doors off their hinges — and really, does she believe they’d all fit under the sink?

He thinks they can at least spend a few minutes to recuperate, but there must be a rule somewhere in the fate’s ledger reading, Martin Blackwood can go fuck himself. Because the moment a hope for a reprieve manifests in his consciousness, the door to the Archives creaks open.

“I’m done for today,” Georgie calls out. “Who wants berry doughnuts?”

A few events occur in quick succession. 

One, Melanie’s face crumples, and Martin knows immediately what she’s going to do. He reaches out a tad too late, fingers brushing past the woman’s wrist as she darts forward. 

Two, Melanie presses herself against the door, grabbing the handle with one hand and turning the key with another, nearly falling into the hallway in her haste to get out. If that doesn’t get Georgie’s attention, yelling certainly does.

Three, chaos erupts. Melanie screams at her girlfriend to get out, Tim screams at Melanie to close the door, Martin screams because Rosie’s noticed them and is approaching fast. If Jon had a mouth, he’d probably scream, too.

Four, Tim and Sasha pull Melanie back as Rosie’s nails scrape the doorframe. Martin steps in front of the creature despite every instinct telling him to do the opposite. Rosie stretches, head dangling from a thin neck akin to a bellflower, something white glistening in its depths — teeth, maybe. Or eyes.

Five, Martin, the idiot that he is, glances inside Rosie as she towers above him. It’s suffocating. It feels like standing on the edge of the world, the abyss below so vast and endless that the human mind can’t comprehend it. Faceless and voiceless, it whispers to Martin, louder than his own thoughts. It clings to his senses, overwhelming in its cold, cosmic openness. 

You are alone, the abyss says, not unkindly. Your father left you. Your mother doesn’t want you. Your friends are better off without you. But I will love you, always.

Come to me.

And a second of hesitation is all it takes — Martin trips, flails helplessly and falls down, down, down, into a blackness so thick that neither sound nor the barest hint of light dares disturb it.

.

..

…

He is housebound, waiting for his husband to arrive. The neighbours are hiding behind white picket fences, curtains drawn shut. He gathers his things and leaves.

He is recovering from brain surgery, thin fingers resting on spotless white. Encased in a plastic web of tubes and wires, he only wishes for someone to hold his hand.

He is restocking milk cartons during the night shift, rain splattering against the glass panes. The doors slide open, squall brushing its wet tongue against the floor. Nobody enters.

He is on an empty bus slowing down outside the city. Neither of his friends is waiting at the station.

He is in a deserted post office trying to send a letter. All windows are closed.

He is rotting in bed, has been for weeks. There are piles of dishes on the floor. No new messages.

He is multitudes, thousands of faces and destinies to pick from. Countless bodies to nest within, to dress and groom at his leisure.

So why, why in hell does he feel so forsaken? 

Why is he so alone?

…

..

.

He barely senses his legs.

He is submerged in cold water up to his chest, fully clothed. Thin layers of milky-white fog cling to the surface, settling around his shoulders and neck, frost overtaking his glasses. The sky’s dome hangs low, almost kissing the hairs atop his head, and the horizon stretches uninterrupted save for a faraway island shadow. 

The spot is unusually shallow. He must be standing on something, after all, but his feet are so numb that he might as well be a float bobbing away into the ocean. His shoes have doubtlessly turned into mush, but at least, his ruined jumper doesn’t drag him under the current.

It’s oddly peaceful. He likes the idea of staying here for a while, listening to the gentle lapping of the waves. He doesn’t know how much time passes before he stops shivering. Detachedly, he realises it’s a bad sign yet can’t help but be glad there’s one less nuisance.

He didn’t see the island from this angle last time, when it came to him in a dream. Is the person wandering the ocean still here, close enough so they can finally meet? Or has it been himself all along? It’s a pity, then, that his past can’t be communicated with across such a distance… And his limbs are too leaden to move.

“Martin…”

Oh. It’s him, isn’t it? Martin. Marrrrtin. Not many people call him that outside coffee shops, he thinks. The wind is picking up, filling his ears with nonsense.

“Martin,” it howls plaintively like a widower. “Come back, Martin.”

No, Martin thinks. I don’t suppose I will. 

The water is up to his shoulders now, slowly rising. It’s a nice, tight embrace. If he leaves, he’ll be cold and alone, but here — here he can be a part of something bigger than himself. He can finally let go.

“Martin,” the wind begs. “Please, come back. We need you.”

You don’t. Martin frowns. Not really. Nobody needs me, but that’s okay.

His memories are tinged with loss, countless evenings spent crying and dissociating to The Bake Off reruns.

A fraud and a pushover who never graduated high school, who struggles to make friends or find an outfit that doesn’t sit weirdly, who’s only kept his job because Sasha graciously brushed past his fictive experiences.

The ocean surrounds the column of his neck, drops of salt drying on his chin and lips. The waves roar and toss themselves against the wind as if trying to snuff out its persistent intangible pleas.

“Maybe,” it cries nonetheless, “maybe we don’t need you. But we want you here. I want to live knowing you exist, Martin Blackwood.”

There’s something wet running down Martin’s cheeks. His breath stutters as he tries to come up with an answer.

I am such a failure, he wants to say. 

“And it doesn’t make you less worthy of existing. We love your caring nature, your patience, your wit and your resolve. We love you, simply for being yourself. Come back.”

Martin sniffs, blinking the moisture out of his eyes. He mentally pulls himself together, throwing one last glance at the tilting horizon.

I believe you, he decides. God knows why, but I do.

Then he takes a large gulp of air and dives under the oncoming tide.

His vision returns in colourful spots and blobs.

The rushing in his ears reminds him vaguely of the sea, but it’s getting farther and farther away. Martin — he remembers now, of course; how could he forget his chosen name? — is seated on something cold, yet he’s surrounded by warmth. Any attempt to move his stiff, uncooperative limbs sends cascades of phantom needles across his skin. It feels like he’s fallen asleep in an icy bath.

“Martin? You okay?” asks a person to his left. Martin turns his head, seeing Tim squatted next to him, holding Martin’s hand in his own. Where Martin’s nails are blue and chipped, Tim’s are freshly painted black; he counts the bracelets on his friend’s wrist (yellow, grey, pink, white — same as Sasha’s) and the room around him becomes just a bit more real.

“Ye… yeah,” Martin clears his throat. Gosh, his voice is wrecked.

“It’s fine if you need a minute,” says Sasha, gently rubbing his shoulder. She looks frazzled but, thankfully, unharmed. There’s no sign of Rosie anywhere. Maybe she went to buy a chainsaw at Fleet Street Hardware.

Melanie is leaning on the wall behind Martin, her side pressed against him. As soon as she meets his gaze, her face crumples.

“I’m sorry,” she mutters. “Georgie was… and then you…”

“It’s nothing,” Martin hurries to assure her. “You were saving Georgie, and I made my decision. No harm done, right?”

“No harm— dude, you almost died! Worse, even! You were almost completely erased from existence.”

Georgie, who is half-embracing her girlfriend, nods sagely, fingers resting on Martin’s lap. “It was… a terrible couple of hours. For a while, it looked like you wouldn’t return.”

They are all touching him, comforting him. It’s… actually kind of nice.

“You seemed so peaceful,” Sasha adds, sounding disturbed. “Your whole body was turning blue and transparent, and you were so cold… ”

“Mhm, I’m suing you for a frostbite,” Tim butts in, showcasing his pinkie in a manner that suggests he needs attention more than medical treatment. Despite his exhaustion, Martin snorts. 

He then looks straight ahead, eyes landing on a stranger.

“Who…” he pauses, and oh…  

It’s not quite a stranger, is it?.. No, Martin only thought so because he’s used to seeing that face on a flat surface, well-lit and entirely devoid of emotion. The resemblance is undeniable: big nose, dark eyes, a small scar on the clean-shaven chin, short hair parted to the side — the only difference is a surprisingly animated expression of concern.

Martin is stunned into silence, fearing that acknowledging it may shutter the gorgeous illusion. As if reading his mind, the illusion smiles timidly, out of practice.

“Hello,” it says, extending one hand, the other busy cupping Martin’s knee. “I believe it’s about time we got properly introduced.”

Statement of Jonathan Sims, regarding his fate and that of Gertrude Robinson. Statement given March 5th, 2017.

My name is Jonathan Sims. God, it feels incredible to say that… I was appointed Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute in June 2015, and, technically, I still am. I’ve been incapacitated and refrained from my duties for the last fourteen months, courtesy of Ms Rosie Zampano, whom I have… accidentally… evaporated. 

Ahem. Let me start from the beginning.

Rosie, to her knowledge, didn’t have a home. Some of her faces did, but they were unable to pass those memories down. Rosie — her last iteration, at least — wasn’t born. Rosie began around January 2011, and anything before that is lost to history. 

There is no accurate description of what she was. A thief, a hunter, a costume with no wearer. A wild animal, aching for something to fill the void inside, never sated. People were literature — pulp fiction in fishnets and revealing dresses, sophisticated novels in suits and ties, beauty magazines tucked into leather belts — and Rosie swallowed them all page by page. 

She squeezed herself into the foreign skin, feeding excess flesh to the hungering maw in place of her heart. She wrapped herself in glossy covers, and for a short time, it made existence bearable. Rosie wasn’t made for this world, but, much like assassin bugs Acanthaspis petax, she’d learned to use her victims’ carcasses as camouflage to fool her prey.

At the end of 2014, she was starving. Rosie bypassed a good face, allowing it to fade in the solitude of a hospital room, because she was hoping for a harvest. You see, tearing off someone’s skin isn’t so simple: it requires a lack of resistance. Plucking out a single thread is more convenient when it’s not intertwined with others, and erasing a human being is easier when they have nothing to live for. 

Elias Bouchard was lonely but untouchable. It didn’t matter why, same as it doesn’t matter why bosses are assholes or some clouds are shaped like bread. Just another quirk of nature, guiding everyday routines. Elias Bouchard was to be guarded and followed — ignoring him was no easier than ignoring the sun — and Rosie accepted it.

Gertrude Robinson, on the other hand, was a vulnerable, piquant morsel. Rosie circled her for months, watching. The more of her assistants disappeared (some even without Rosie’s interference), the more Gertrude wove nets around the mystery. Struggles led to mistrust, from which isolation sprouted. By spring 2015, the archivist had marinated in paranoia enough to be turned into dinner.

It was on May 25th that Rosie began untangling Gertrude from the universal canvas, preparing for a switch, when the knots got stuck. The archivist was clinging to life out of sheer stubbornness, anchored by a few pesky strings refusing to budge. Manual removal it was, then. 

Rosie descended into the basement, hunger clawing at her like a dying, vicious thing unsettled by the promise of a rich meal. The lamp in Gertrude’s office was on, and Rosie entered without knocking. The old woman glanced up from her papers, white bun pinned in place, a knitted shawl thrown over the shoulders. She looked harmless like that, surrounded by a halo of yellow light, hidden in a little dusty room where no one would come to her aid.

Gertrude Robinson was anything but harmless.

‘Rosie,’ she said, unsurprised. Like Rosie was a grim reaper, whom the archivist had spent weeks waiting for, prone on her deathbed. ‘I was wondering.’

Rosie didn’t reply. Instead, she launched herself at Gertrude, nails digging into her wrinkles. She began tearing and peeling, scratching at the pouring blood, meat and hair; Gertrude groaned in pain or anger, trying to throw her assailant off, gripping Rosie’s wrists with admirable force. Sadly, she couldn’t compare to a creature unimpeded by the laws of physics.

A different appearance started blending into Rosie’s features. Her eye corners gained crow feet, her body grew thinner and shorter, veins bulging and straining under her newly pigmented skin. She felt more, she became more, while Gertrude thawed on the spot. 

‘Not to worry, this agony won’t be remembered,’ Rosie crooned. ‘Isn’t it wonderful? When your distress at losing something is easily overcome by forgetting you ever had it in the first place?’

With the last effort, Gertrude strained against the hold, searching the desk for something, anything — 

There!

She grabbed a letter opener and, with a strength uncommon for such a small lady, plunged it deep into the monster.

Rosie howled, releasing her opponent. The stolen skin slid off her like a shadow chased away by the sun, rejoining its true owner. But it was too late. Suddenly, Gertrude gasped, looked down and found herself staring at the knife, its intricate handle protruding from her chest. Gertrude’s skin returned damaged by her own hand, dark red blooming on white silk.

Of course, there is no cure for a stabbed heart.

The archivist swayed, trying to find purchase, grabbing uselessly at the desk, then the chair, and at last sagging to the floor. Glasses askew, breath trembling, the woman held herself notably well. The vision was as satisfying as it was unfortunate.

‘You… ’ she croaked, ‘don’t get… to parade… my f-face around…’

‘I will find another.’ Rosie smiled.

‘Ha… You’re despe… rate…’

‘And you’re dying.’

‘Desperation…’ Gertrude continued, an annoying smirk playing on her lips, ‘comes… at a cost...’

At this, she forced out a laboured exhale, mouth moving wordlessly. Her half-lidded gaze stopped just above Rosie's shoulder. In the next blink, Gertrude Robinson was no more.

Elias helped get rid of the body. 

Rosie found another target in a lonely researcher Jonathan… well, myself. She convinced Elias to promote me to Head Archivist, a hermit role that would be my undoing. I made preparations, of course, recordings and notes that I hid in the one place people wouldn’t look, the lost-and-found on the second floor. I left encrypted directions on my laptop and in my flat, but it wasn’t enough. I faded, my laptop was gone, my IDs were gone, and no one knew where I lived.

Spring came, and I stayed suspended in the cracks between reality and its underside. I was sleepwalking, barely able to hold onto a thought, losing track of myself in the fog. Confused, weightless, frozen.

And then, I woke up to voices.

And then, I remembered my name.

And then, I was able to speak.

And then, I wasn’t dead.

“Elias won’t have left without Rosie,” Jon (Jon!) says after a long pause, steadying Martin on his wobbly feet. The latter feels like swooning just to have Jon grasp him tighter. Excuse his near-death experience. “We should strike while we have the advantage of surprise. Sasha, please text Basira.”

Sasha nods, taking out her phone. Having two archivists in the same room gives Martin a whiplash of authority. He’s thrilled to discover that Jon sounds exactly as he does on the tapes, except fuller, and without a static overlay. It’s also cute to see the micro expressions accompanying Jon’s every word — he doesn’t seem aware of how easy it is to read him.

“We should put all cards on the table,” the ex-ghost proclaims, nose scrunched adorably, hands setting fire to Martin’s clammy skin. “Georgie, Melanie, how are you with seeing human remains?”

Chapter Text

Bent over his massive mahogany desk, right hand signing off a form with a wide, elaborate gesture, Elias Bouchard makes for an imposing figure.

Sharply cut green suit, slick greying hair, pressed tie nestled between the wings of a starched collar — everything speaks of a man infatuated with bureaucracy. Mixing chronological and alphabetical orders is probably his idea of ‘risky behaviour’. His eyes — two dots, glistening like silver cufflinks — graze over Martin, causing him to shiver.

“Ms James,” Elias acknowledges, inclining his head. The goatee framing his mouth adds to the cartoonishly evil impression. “Mr Blackwood. Mr Stoker.”

“Mr Bouchard,” Sasha replies, striding in without permission to sit across from the director. Tim closes the door and slots himself behind Sasha’s shoulder — a silent guardian angel — while Martin stays by the entrance.

“Do come in.” Elias raises an eyebrow. The windows to his left are almost black, save for a few distant lights. Still-naked trees drape their withered shadows over the bookshelves and settees, kept at bay only by the spectre of a small desk lamp. Elias puts the pen aside and locks his fingers under his chin, waiting for the others to speak.

“How long have you known Rosie?” Sasha asks, blunt as always. “You hired her officially just after joining yourself. You must have had a good reason, correct?”

The corner of Elias’s lips twitches, his face a wax mask, gaze unnervingly empty.

It reminds Martin of how as a kid, he once found a small fish on a beach. He stared into the shiny disk of its pale eye, and his reflection stared back at him, submerged in dead water. A two-way mirror, but no light on the other side.

“She’s an old acquaintance of mine, yes.”

“And you know what she is, I assume,” Sasha continues. “After all, you helped her cover up Gertrude Robinson’s murder.”

It’s a bold accusation. Martin tenses, heart thumping loudly in his chest, but Elias doesn’t sprout wings, or horns, or sharp teeth. He doesn’t leap out of his chair to chase them around the building or suck anyone into a black hole of non-existence.

In fact, he is so intensely not doing anything that it freaks Martin out even more.

“Interesting theory, Ms James. Do you have the evidence to back it up?” There’s an odd change in Bouchard’s expression, and if Martin didn’t know better, he’d mistake it for excitement. What someone of Elias’s sort can be excited about is a frightening prospect.

“Of course.” Sasha produces a cassette with Jon’s statement. “Here we have a witness recounting Rosie’s assault on Gertrude.” She turns to Tim, who passes her his phone. “And here our camera recorded Rosie attacking the archival staff this evening. Do you want me to play it?”

‘Recorded Rosie’ is a generous description; Tim’s camera recorded something resembling a warped flesh worm taking out its anger on the Institute’s property. At least now there’s an excuse to refurbish the archival kitchenette. Maybe install a single tap for both hot and cold water, or even a fridge that doesn’t look like it helped Indiana Jones escape a nuclear explosion.

“No need.” Elias waves Sasha off, just as she predicted. “You wouldn’t have relied on shoddy proof, Ms James. That’s why you’re my Head Archivist.” It’s incredible how he manages to sound so patronising and complacent when all but admitting his guilt.

“What are you doing?” Tim asks menacingly as Elias opens a folder, takes out several pages, dips his pen in ink and begins to write.

“It’s quite simple.” The Institute’s Head doesn’t glance up. “You three are fair, morally upstanding people. Either you’ve called the police or will do so soon — in any case, I don’t have much time to finish my paperwork.”

“We still have questions,” Tim insists, winding up. “What the hell is Rosie? Why did you let her in here? What’s you master plan, huh?”

“Alright,” Elias replies after a pause, appraising Tim. His marble-like eyes roll in their sockets, wide and lifeless. Does he ever blink? “But we shouldn’t leave poor Jon out of this discussion. He fought so hard to be heard, after all.”

Interview with Jonathan Sims, regarding the events that took place on March 3rd, 2017. Recorded by Officer Hussain.

Hussain: And you were outside the door?

Sims: Yes. I… [Sigh] We decided it would be better not to reveal my presence unless necessary.

Hussain: Smart. Where were the other two? King and Barker, correct?

Sims: They went into the tunnels, down there. There’s a trapdoor in my… [Clears throat] in the archivist’s office, I’m sure you’ve seen. I gave them directions, what I could glimpse from… the creature’s memory. It probably wasn’t long before they called you.

Hussain: Right, they found Robinson’s body. What happened after?

Sims: Well, after…

“After everything, this is what he gets? Hello, welcome back, you can start on Monday?” Tim questions angrily. His protective instincts shine through, like Jon is his younger brother being mistreated by some dick of a teacher.

“Frankly,” Elias drawls, “I’m not sure what else you want me to do.”

Tim slaps his palms on the table. Martin jumps a little, Jon curses; the director doesn’t even flinch.

“An apology would be nice! A fucking — explanation, you cryptic piece of shit! All this, this mortal danger, all your lying and snooping, and this," Tim exclaims, rooting in his back pocket. With jerking motions, he takes out a few rectangular pieces of plastic and throws them in front of Elias. “This junk you’ve been keeping. What even is this?”

“Indeed,” Elias hums, perfectly trimmed nail tapping on one of the cards. He smirks. “What are we looking at, Jon?”

Martin sees Jon stiffen, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. His soft voice carries over.

“It’s… It’s not his,” the archivist states quietly. “It’s hers.”

Hussain: Somehow I doubt it was just office supplies.

Sims: No. A collection of sorts, I assume. When people vanish, their belongings tend to shed the owners’ personality. Maybe she kept them as a reminder, or a source of power. IDs, travel passes, credit cards – anything small enough with a lot of information.

Hussain: How many were there?

Thirty-two, Melanie counted. Green and grey and orange. Some dented or chipped, some laminated.

Martin feels sick.

Thirty-two. About the size of a school class. He tries to imagine his peers from GCSE English, a sea of faces — bullies, know-it-alls, popular kids — all growing silent and disappearing into fog one by one.

“Where do they go?” Tim asks hoarsely. A shadow of grief passes over his features. “The people she…”

“They float away.” Martin licks his lips, tugging at the bottom of his jumper. He meets Jon’s gaze, and the painful resignation in it matches his own. They both know the ugly truth. “There’s an ocean of memories on the other side. It’s very hard to come back once you’re in, and if you go under…”

It’s vast and blue, he doesn’t say, and deceptively kind. And it whispers sweet nothings and consolations as you dissolve into sea foam.

Martin hates that he almost misses its gentle embrace.

“So you helped Rosie satiate her hunger. Why?” Sasha crosses her arms sternly. Elias shrugs.

“Friends don’t let friends starve.”

Tim groans.

“I’m gonna go ahead and ask what everyone’s thinking,” he announces. “Are you even human? Or just wearing some poor bloke like a skin-suit?”

Bouchard looks at Tim dead-on, irises still and nearly black in the low light. Like crushed bugs.

“And what would it matter?” he asks in an amused, indulgent tone. “For you, I’ll always be the only Elias Bouchard. What if I told you that Ms James, your best friend, has been replaced? Would you know the difference?”

Sasha frowns. Tim opens his mouth as if to respond, but no word gets out.

“What about Martin?”

Noooo, Martin pleads in his head, leave me out of this thought experiment.

Elias continues, unfazed.

“A curious mechanism it is, human brain. You see, every time you take a memory out of its dusty little box, it gets rewritten by your current perception. The original memory is long gone. What you think you remember has never actually happened.”

Hussain: So, in your opinion, what actually happened?

Sims: [Chuckle] Bad time, bad place. Something unnatural tried to… rip me from reality, but the process didn’t go all the way through. I don’t know, maybe using analogue media saved me. Digital files did seem to get more easily corrupted. Or maybe it was people refusing to give up my memory. [Sigh] Either way, I’m lucky to be here, I suppose.

Hussain: Seems that way.

“This never-happened-gaslighting-fest doesn’t change the facts,” Tim growls. “Thirty-two people are dead.”

“How could they be,” Bouchard retorts calmly. “if they never lived?”

“And what about Gertrude?” Jon inquires. “Her existence is pretty easy to prove.”

“Ah yes, a regrettable accident,” Elias laments, like they’re talking about mismatched socks and not violent workplace murder. “I wasn’t there, of course, but what’s done is done.”

Hussain: Alright, we’re almost done. [Shuffling] We already have your contacts, so I just need you to sign this and this.

Sims: [Pause] You know, you're surprisingly open... to the idea of supernatural.

Hussain: I'd have to be. Your Institute is not the only paranormal circus around, Sims. I’ve seen things no human should ever see — a ghost story is tame in comparison.

Sims: Well. Glad to find a kindred spirit. In case we need help with future investigations.

Hussain: [Sigh] You can still get out, you know? Sign this and move on with your life. Dipped your toes into danger, had your fun, now go work at a library or something.

Sims: I can’t. I need answers.

Hussain: If you keep poking the terrible stuff out there, it’s going to poke back.

Sims: Obviously. But there must be a reason things like Rosie exist. I have to get to the bottom of this. I have to know why.

“Why us?” Tim calls out as Elias is being led away. “Why choose us for the Archives?”

Bouchard pauses, to the visible displeasure of his escorting officer.

“Dear Rosie was quite adept at untangling people.” He smiles, razor-sharp with a show of teeth. “How did she put it? Grief has taught you to be alone. It didn’t have to be you, of course. But the flavour of death, unflattering job prospects and not belonging anywhere…” At this Elias pointedly looks at Tim, Sasha and Martin in turn, bullets flying out of his mouth. “You were the next best thing after Jon.”

And Martin wonders, as Elias stares directly at him, if that last you was plural or singular.

Martin finds a pebble to kick while sitting on the Institute’s steps. It’s very late. Or early, depending on who you ask.

Everyone has given their statements, except for Jon, who’s been talking to Basira for the past half an hour.

Tim called a cab for himself and Sasha. Melanie doesn’t live far, so she and Georgie decided on walking – Georgie was anxious to leave Jon and Martin behind, but the latter ushered her home. All of them were tired, and it’s not like Martin had anything better to do. So he promised to look after the wayward archivist.

Now he’s shuffling Elias’s words in his head like a Rubik’s Cube. A mindless philosophical exercise.

One the one hand, the director appeared human; he surrendered himself to the police without much fuss, and at no point did his visage morph into anything extreme. On the other, Martin can’t help but think of Elias’s eyes, and the whole demeanour around the situation, as, well… Monstrous.

He’d like to believe he’s better than Elias; that if someone he knew were a killer, even by necessity, he’d turn them in rather than adapt around it.

Then he imagines said someone being Jon, with crinkles around the eyes and a warm laugh… And suddenly, he’s unsure whether his already shaky morality is worth more than sparing Jon a second of pain. Most alarming, Martin’s mother would say, is how little this caveat, where the devil hides, actually bothers him.

Eh, so what? Being easily swayed by someone’s discomfort isn’t the worst thing that could happen, he thinks. Even if it puts him on a tentative path to murder.

A story about friendship

Once, a very lonely man was found by a very lonely book. In fairness, it could barely be called a book with only a hundred pages. On the soft, glossy cover was pictured a white fence and behind it — a faceless woman figure in a dotted yellow dress.

The man was supposed to log it in and put it away. But the hour was thick with boredom, and the book was so cold in the man’s hands, not a single crack on its smooth surface. Just like him, it was unloved.

Just like him, it wanted to be known.

Why he took it, he couldn’t explain even to himself. Perhaps he was compelled by a sense of kinship. Perhaps that sense was even mutual.

That night, with the stolen paperback tucked under his pillow, the man had a most peculiar dream. He stood freezing in his shirt and pyjama bottoms, wet sand sticking to his feet. The smell of salt almost made him dizzy.

THANK YOU, someone said behind him, icy fingers running through his hair. PLEASE, DON’T TURN AROUND.

‘Who are you?’ the man asked.

A FRIEND.

‘What kind of friend?’

THE KIND THAT NEVER LEAVES.

When he woke up, there was a woman in a yellow dress sitting at his kitchen table, the surface between her chin and hairline flat and glistening.

YOU FOUND ME, AND NOW WE’LL BE TOGETHER, she promised, sounding like she’d be smiling if she had a mouth. FRIENDS FOREVER AND EVER.

She found a face to wear soon enough, and she didn’t leave. They were friends, after all.

He begged her.

She didn’t leave.

He was the only tenant on his floor and couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t for the life of him remember if there used to be others. He attacked her.

She didn’t leave.

He cursed, and prayed, and sobbed into her yellow dotted dress, icy fingers running through his hair. He called for help and took drugs and travelled across the country, hoping with each blink that he’d find none of it ever happened.

She didn’t leave.

He tried to burn the book. He picked it up and flicked his lighter on with a practised motion, and he watched the pages curl in fear of the heat.

She clawed at his face in a blind rage until he couldn’t think. But she didn’t leave.

Once he was able to stand without pain, he looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. At the unusually cruel pinch of his mouth; at the harsh set of his brows, held by an invisible thread; at the unfamiliar eyes, far older than the body they resided in.

DO YOU LIKE IT? she asked. I TRIED TO STITCH IT BACK TOGETHER. THE EYES ARE ALMOST THE SAME COLOUR, DON’T YOU THINK?

And, to his own surprise, the man realised he felt… calm. In control. The subcutaneous damage was extensive but unseen. Something was missing. Some kind of muscle responsible for expressing grief and sympathy was no longer hooked under his skin, so his face stayed blissfully void of emotion.

‘Yes,’ he replied. His tongue didn’t move quite right. His atrophied lips and cheeks tingled as if under a heavy dose of dental anaesthesia.

It would take getting used to, he thought.

‘Do you miss your past self?’

She laughed.

DOES A LAMB CHOP MISS BEING A LAMB?

Without wrinkles, his face seemed alien. Unused. Smooth, glossy skin stretching from ear to ear without cracks – on her and on him.

The man smiled, his heart no longer heavy with sadness.

She smiled too, no longer alone.

Jon waves awkwardly at Basira’s retreating form.

“Whoosh,” Martin exhales. “What a week.”

“Mm.” Jon leans against one of the columns. “What a mess.”

“Do you… uh… want to talk?” Martin scratches the back of his head. “I mean. You’re back! That’s kinda — we kinda skipped over it, I think? Sorry. It was a crazy evening.”

“I don’t know,” Jon says tonelessly. He carefully lowers himself, joining Martin on the ground.

“That’s okay.”

They sit in companiable silence for a while, both too exhausted to consider moving to the nearest bench. Whatever. Martin’s already swept the Institute’s floor with his butt today.

"I… It was… painful… at times,” Jon’s voice comes out unsure, stilted. “Before all this. Being present in my own life, having agency. Always feeling like I’m stuck waiting on the side of the road. It’s probably part of the reason Rosie targeted me.”

His hunched figure seems too small in the shade of the Institute’s porch. The marble columns and epistyle hide him from the street lamps, painting deep, tired gouges across his face. Not an untouchable concept, not a spirit, but a man.

With a start, Martin realises how much he longs to cradle and treasure Jon's precious, fragile, hard-won existence; to kiss Jon's frowning brows and prematurely greying temples, cup the outline of his sharp jaw and smooth over the tense wrinkle on his forehead. More than anything, Martin longs to reach deep into the archivist's heart and dislodge a wicked glass shard buried in there that hisses deceitful prophecies of eternal solitude.

“I don’t want to be a side-piece in my own life. But I’m not sure…” Jon trails off and huffs, clearly frustrated with himself.

Where to begin?

If it’s worth it?

If I’m strong enough?

Carefully, like taming a spooked animal, Martin moves his hand closer to Jon’s until their pinkies are touching. He mulls over the unasked questions and tramples down his own existential dread.

So much awfulness happens every minute, disasters and little tragedies locked in a passionate, deadly tango. It’s scary to admit, but if there's a single solid reason to live, Martin doesn't know it.

But maybe, that’s not too bad.

And maybe, uninspired, unnoticed life is still worthy of a place in the fabric of the universe.

Martin’s job isn’t terrible, he’s gained new friends, got to throw a birthday party and is — potentially, just a tiny bit — in love. He hasn’t run out of tea or milk. There’s an unfinished Keats biography waiting on his windowsill. Tomorrow is Saturday.

And that’s enough.

"You know, the last few months have been absurdly strange," he responds at last. "One of my colleagues turned out to be a ghost, another a face-devouring monster, and then my evil boss got arrested for aiding a murderer. But… to be quite honest, Jon,” he pauses and glances aside briefly, swallowing past the fluttering in his chest. “You being here, properly, has to be the most fantastical thing of them all. Regaining yourself will be tough, but I’d be glad to help — If you’ll have me."

Jon coughs, evidently caught off guard by the raw sentiment.

"I, uh, appreciate it.” He nervously fiddles with his sleeve and pushes up his glasses, stumbling over the words as if in disbelief at what he's saying. “O-on that note, Martin, I’ve been meaning to ask, now that this horrific ordeal is over… Would you… Do you maybe want, hypothetically speaking… that is, should the occasion arise, and if you're not opposed to the idea, and if you're not too busy, I'd like to…"

Martin doesn’t dare hope, rushing out a tentative, scrambled, "…goonadatewithme?"

“I—” Jon catches himself mid-phrase, blinking like a confused cat. “W-well. Yes.”

As their gazes meet, Martin's lips are involuntarily pulled into a huge smile, his thumb rubbing circles into the archivist's knuckles.

"Sure! Of course! I'm free on Sunday. There’s a cool cinema near Whitechapel, and we could go down to the river afterwards," Martin offers casually, pretending not to have put the perfect date idea together, with surgical precision, way in advance.

"Alright. Thank you." Jon nods mechanically and turns away to stare at the front yard, tips of his ears flushed.

"Alright," Martin echoes amiably.

A moment passes, then another. Just when he decides the conversation is over—

“Shit,” Jon mutters, surveying the blue shadows around them, the swirling iron gates in the distance and the trees planted along the gravel road. “I’ve just realised… how much I am not looking forward to all the paperwork.”

Martin snorts and bumps into the archivist’s shoulder, a wave of relief washing over him. Paperwork. How perfectly, absolutely mundane.

Jon lets out a startled laugh as well, apparently coming to the same realisation. His mouth curves into a sly grin, brown eyes full of mirth.

“I missed my T-shot,” Martin shares, shrugging. “Didn’t plan on camping here, and the tube is closed for, like, another hour.”

“I don’t even know whether I have a flat,” Jon says. “Best case scenario, my stuff is in a storage unit somewhere, and even then, I’d need a new laptop and mobile because Elias doesn’t believe in personal property.”

“Ohh, yeah. What a creep, honestly. We’ll figure it out, I promise, starting… well, not today — tomorrow, probably? I'm currently running on caffeine and two hours of sleep.”

“Of course,” Jon chuckles. Relaxed amusement looks good on him, if a bit stiff in the shoulders — like he’s trying on a jacket that’s been at the back of his closet for years, and he’s uncertain if it still fits. “My schedule is flexible enough, especially now that I have an unconditional ‘tomorrow’.”

Martin’s smile softens as he hesitantly reaches to tuck a misbehaving curl behind the archivist’s ear.

“You do,” he confirms. You finally do.

They look at each other, frazzled and content in a way that’s almost indecent this early in the morning.

Perched on the dusty steps of the Magnus Institute, after weeks of stress and torment, is Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist, who likes tea and sea life documentaries, writes in Victorian cursive and carries himself with the weight and haughtiness of a BBC radio booth. And Martin adores him utterly.

Drunk on the euphoria of simply being, they sit under the blanket of soft, fraying silence, watching the sun send its pioneering strings of light that catch and glitter on the rare waddling bus roofs.

.

..

...

There are three objective, unshakeable truths he repeats to himself on the trek to the Archives.

Today is May 8th, 2017.

He is Jonathan Sims, re-established Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute.

And he is not alone.

“Tea?” Martin catches him on the way to the office.

“Sure. Thank you.” That’s another thing. He’s trying to let people care for him. It doesn’t come naturally and occasionally normal, polite words get stuck in Jon’s throat, making him sound like a complete asshole. Overall, it feels like learning to ride a kid’s bike — bumpy, strenuous and decades too late. But it’s certainly better than the alternative.

Plus, it has the added benefit of making Martin happy.

“Here you go,” the man sets down Jon’s cat mug, a silly gift Tim bought that reads You’re totally pawsome! “You joining us for lunch? Georgie and Melanie promised to drop by.”

Jon glances at his wrist.

“Give me ten minutes. I want to deal with these books first.”

“Okay,” Martin smiles, a bright little thing that warms Jon's entire being, and drops a kiss on top of the Archivist's head. “Call if you need anything.”

“Will do.”

Jon fishes a few tomes out of a box and methodically sorts them into piles — ghosts, vampires, evil furniture, ghosts again. There’s barely any space left — his desk already harbours a dangerously leaning tower of stationery, a buzzing green lamp and an ancient, bulky relic that the IT Department insists on calling a fully operational computer. Jon really needs to figure out which of his belongings should go into which drawers, but it’s a chore for another afternoon.

“Heya, boss. How’s our case?” Tim, as usual, comes to bother him around meal time. A not-so-subtle reminder to take a break.

“Hm? Ah, hello Tim.” Jon takes a minute to free a small paperback from the onslaught of wayward reports. “Nothing major, but Basira wants my opinion on this.”

Tim takes the book, tracing the title with his thumb.

“‘Picket Fence?’ How quaint. It’s the one they got from Elias, right?”

“Mm-hm. A short, Lovecraftian story about suburban life. But that’s not what’s interesting.” Jon opens the book roughly in the middle, shoving it under Tim’s nose. “Look.”

Tim looks, then whistles.

“That’s one hell of a misprint.”

Jon agrees. The story features a married couple — or it’s supposed to. But any reference to the wife is replaced with a white space, leaving massacred phrases such as ‘<…> wore a yellow dotted dress’ or ‘<…> prepared lamb chop for dinner’.

“It is very odd. Worse still: I’ve seen something similar in the past. Do you remember my statement?”

“Your childhood near-death experience?” Tim frowns. “Wait. Don’t tell me…”

Jon nods.

“Right around that time, I got my hands on a peculiar book. ‘A Guest for Mr Spider’. Thick carton, colourful pull-tabs, and absolutely no mention of the title character.”

Only blanks instead of lines and pictures gaping like feeble, toothless maws.

“Maybe we should ask this J. Leitner,” Tim says, reading the cover. “The guy’s work producing shapeshifting monsters? Huge red flag.”

“I’m not one for conspiracy theories,” Jon sighs. “But we should definitely investigate.”

“Alright, well,” Tim puts the ‘Picket Fence’ atop a stack of papers and nearly topples it. “Shit. Ahem. Anyway, this X-Files mystery can wait. Lunch with your favourite colleagues can’t.”

“Favourite? Does that mean Sasha will be there?” Jon replies innocently.

“Ouch,” Tim presses a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I’m wounded, truly. You’re breaking my heart, Jon.” The latter snorts.

“You’ll live.”

“No, but seriously,” Tim sobers up for a second. “There’s no reply from Lukas — he’s on a self-discovering journey at sea, or whatever, and Sash is so busy this week. I dunno, I kind of assumed Elias had nothing to do, the way he was constantly up in people’s shit.”

Martin peeks into the room.

“Ten minutes are up.”

“Coming.” Jon drops his phone and wallet into Martin’s shopper — because it’s convenient and he doesn’t want to drag his laptop bag everywhere. Shut up, Tim.

“I was thinking the sandwich place on the corner?” Martin offers, taking Jon’s hand.

“It’s adequate.”

“Works for me.”

Jon turns the key in the office lock twice, breathes in and out. The ghost of his past self still haunts him in these corridors — he doesn’t think it will ever leave — but it’s getting easier to ignore with each passing day.

As they climb the stairs, Tim and Martin arguing about ham and turkey (“I’m just saying, a sandwich without red meat is inferior by design.” “Excuse me, your worldview is inferior by design.”), Jon throws a look over his shoulder.

At the far end, where shadows are the darkest, he imagines a faceless, transparent figure draped in sorrow. Watching him.

Jon inclines his head.

Let time pass, he thinks at it. You won't be forsaken forever.

Between one blink and the next, the phantom is gone.