Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

<click>

Test, test. Shibboleth. Right, this seems to be sufficient.

My name is Harrowhark Nonagesimus, head archivist of the Gaius Institute, Greytown, an organization dedicated to researching the esoteric and the paranormal. At time of recording, I have only recently taken the position after the unexpected passing of Anastasia Novenary. While I don't wish to speak ill of the dead, Miss Novenary did not appear to have prioritized the organizational or accessibility elements of the archivist position. The Institute was founded in eighteen-forty, meaning that there are almost two hundred years of statements and research notes in this archive. Considering the mess my predecessor has left, it may well take twice that long to get this place running properly.

Since the head of the institute has not allocated the budget for contracting an audio specialist, the responsibility of creating audio versions of the written statements falls to me. I would have delegated this task to one of my assistants, but Palamedes Sextus is prone to academic digression, Camilla Hect has firmly declined, and Gr- and Gideon Nav cannot be trusted to refrain from providing color commentary. On top of that, any attempt to record these statements on a computer or other modern device seems to result in… significant audio distortion. Still, I am committed to this work, and the tape recorder will be adequate for the time being.

I cannot promise that I will be able to record these statements in any coherent order, given the aforementioned disorganization, and can only apologize to any future archivists or other researchers. Still, the rock has been rolled. We proceed on.

<click>

Chapter Text

<click>

Case 0190302, statement of Protesilaus Ebdoma, regarding an encounter in a hospital in Blenheim. Original statement given third of February, 2019. Audio recording tenth September, 2025, by Harrowhark Nonagesimus, head archivist of the Gaius Institute, Greytown. Statement begins.

I work as a nurse at Wairau Hospital, primarily in the long-term care unit. People often seem surprised by that. True, most nurses are depicted as either middle-aged women or supermodels in white caps, but in reality it's beneficial to have people of all shapes and sizes. A large man like myself is useful in many situations in a hospital, especially when a visitor gets upset with a diagnosis or a patient needs to be restrained. 'The flower is grateful to the oak, its roots a bulwark from the sea.'

Anyway, on the seventh of last month, we had a patient come in. I wasn't there for the intake, but I learned when I came in for the overnight shift that she had severe blood cancer. The doctors said she might not live through the night. You face death almost every day in this line of work, but it's never easy, at least not for me.

It was almost 8 when I first entered her room. I was doing the dinner rounds; mostly soups and jello, since a lot of the intensive care patients don't have the energy to chew. My patients tend to like it when I'm on the dinner trolley, since I usually bring in some of the flowers from my greenhouse. That day, I had a whole bouquet of yellow roses, which I was very proud of; they're not an easy flower to grow, and these were the largest ones I've ever managed.

Now, when I entered with her tray, this woman spotted the roses right away, and asked if she could have one. She was a dried-out twig of a woman, and her voice was so weak. What could I have said except yes, of course? I handed her one of the larger blooms and mentioned that I grew it myself. She stared directly at me, her eyes so electric blue, and nodded just once. "Growth for growth's sake," she said, and turned back to staring at the flower. I was just getting her an extra glass of water for the flower when I noticed something odd. Right next to her pointer finger, there was a lump in the flower stem. It hadn't been there before, I'm sure of that. As I watched, the lump slowly inched its way up the stem. I left, telling myself that I was just tired and should have an extra coffee when I got a chance.

The next time I passed by her room and looked in to check on her, I saw that all the petals had fallen onto her bedding. She was still staring at the tip of the empty stem, where now there was a cluster of lumps.

It was half one in the morning when I saw her walking the corridors. She'd apparently changed out of her hospital gown into a green dress, and gotten a pair of crutches. She turned to look at me, and the blue of her eyes shone brilliantly from far down the hallway.

Before I knew what was happening she was on me, her hands gripping my head with impossible strength. In that same soft voice, she thanked me for the flower, and repeated what she'd said earlier. "Growth for growth's sake." As she did, I could feel things moving under her skin where it gripped me, lumps of soft matter inching their way through her flesh into mine. I tried to fight, to throw her off of me, but she just smiled.

By the time I regained consciousness, the police had arrived and were taking statements. Apparently this patient had attacked two other nurses, and a third had called 111. The official statement said that she'd choked the other two out, but I got a look at the bodies. Their throats were clogged with masses of tumors, so big and so numerous that they were almost spilling out of their mouths.

I put my notice in at work a few days later, just after I got myself checked out. The oncologist said I had maybe six weeks. I guess that extra time was her thank-you for the flower. 'Do not mistake the thaw for the spring,' I suppose.

Statement ends. I had Gideon reach out to Mr. Ebdoma's family for a follow-up, but they are apparently still grieving and declined to answer any questions.

Miss Hect cross-referenced the date of the alleged incident and found the police report, which identifies the patient as one Cytherea Loveday, former vice-president of Rhodes Limited, a cancer research institute. Miss Loveday had been declared missing three days prior to the date this incident took place, but her position remains unfilled to this day. Mr. Sextus mentioned having applied for an internship at Rhodes as an undergrad, but apparently was not accepted.

One thing that I feel obliged to add to this file for the sake of transparency: Rhodes Limited is a subsidiary of the Dominicus Conglomerate, which, in addition to a variety of business and research interests, is the primary benefactor for the Gaius Institute.

Recording ends.

<click>

<click>

"All I'm saying is we should let her know."

"Then you do it."

"C'mon, Camilla, you know she hates me. SexPal is the only person here she even pretends to respect."

"Her pretending is still a form of respect."

"That's a nothing answer."

"The Warden is right, Ninth. Anyway, it's not like there's budget for soundproofing."

"The sound is only part of it. She's blatantly slacking off."

"You would know."

"Yeah, I would, and I also know when someone is being a blatant hypocrite."

"Who's a hypocrite?"

"Fuck! Harrow, you gave me a damn heart attack."

"That's 'Miss Nonagesimus' to you, Gideon."

"Good afternoon, Miss Nonagesimus."

"Boss."

"Mister Sextus. Miss Hect. I trust that you have not been allowing Miss Nav to interfere with your work."

"Not at all. She was simply asking for advice."

"On what?"

"Soundproofing."

"Specifically, she finds the sound of you recording statements to be somewhat distracting."

"I see. In that case, Miss Nav, you are welcome to reach out to Human Resources for a solution. In the meantime, I suggest that you focus your attention elsewhere. I am sure that the sound of me doing my job will be less distracting from, say, the far end of the archives."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Now then. I suggest you all return to your work."

"Will do."

"One sec- Harrowhark, did you leave this here?"

"Oh. I thought that was in my office."

"It's recording."

"What? So it is. Piece of-"

<click>

Chapter Text

<click>

Case 0230108, statement of Honesty Kaihoko, regarding an encounter in an abandoned mansion near Cape Reigna. Original statement given first of August, 2023. Audio recording fifteenth September, 2025, by Harrowhark Nonagesimus, head archivist of the Gaius Institute, Greytown. Statement begins.

Cross my heart as many times as you want, this really happened to me. Nobody ever believes me when I'm actually telling the truth, but I really hope you do.

I'm a businessman, you see. Okay, I'm a drug dealer, but that's as much a business as selling coffees or whatever. Weed and painkillers mostly, some low-dose amphetamines, just a little help for those trying to get through the day. I'm not a dangerous person, but the way the cops come after me you'd think I was slitting throats in the street.

That's what started it, running from the cops. I'd been selling to tourists on the beach, making their holidays a little brighter, when I noticed this one couple talking to a lifeguard who was trying very hard to pretend she wasn't looking at me. Those narcs had bought a dime bag not half an hour before. The lifeguard goes to pull out her phone, which meant it was high time to leg it.

Somewhere along the way I scratch my leg on a thorny bit of brush, and all a sudden the only thing I could smell was my own blood. Heard a siren in the distance, like the cops could smell it too. All I could think of was people chasing after my blood like sharks.

That's when I saw it. A big white beach house, three stories tall, all done up with columns and towers and balconies, with a big weather vane shaped like an anchor. The place was half choked with vines and all the windows had been smashed. Looked as good a place as any to hide. Probably chokka with squatters, which was fine by me; worst come to worst, I could spare some cabbage in the name of making new friends.

So I slip in, real sophisticated-like. As soon as I've backed away from any windows, I take a look around. For how ruined it was outside, the inside was gorgeous. Fancy wooden furniture, marble floors, some lighting fixtures that looked like they might've been solid gold. No idea how long I spent gawping, could've been hours.

Eventually I think to take a peak, see if I'm still being chased. None of the windows seem broken anymore, which I didn't think was odd at the time but now… well, that wasn't even the weird bit. That was when I looked back the way I'd come.

It was the sea. I don't mean like the tide had come in, I mean that the back garden had vanished and there was ocean clear to the horizon. I ran to some of the other windows, and saw the same thing. Nothing but deep blue water in every direction.

That's when I really started panicking. I went from room to room, looking for some way out, calling for help. Maybe I was just having a bad trip, or had hit my head and was having a nightmare. Outside the sky was getting darker, even though I couldn't see the sun setting.

Then I rounded a corner and nearly ran smack into this little old man. He was short and bald, wearing a white bathrobe. He probably could have called the cops on me, but at that point I was so glad to see another person I nearly burst out sobbing.

The old man looked me in the face, gently smiling, but his eyes were so focused. I wasn't sure what he was looking for, I just tried not to interrupt him. The smell of my scratched leg got so intense I could taste it.  Then he shook his head, still smiling. I remember he said, "We have no more need of The Bleeding Pursuit. You are free to go."

Didn't know what to say to that, really. Felt like I'd failed a test. The old man just took my hand and led me back to the door where I'd entered, and I stepped out into the overgrown back garden. I just stood there for a while, breathing in the night air and listening to the chatter of insects. Then I ran, faster than I've ever gone, until I reached the highway and went smack into a lamp post.

Next chance I get, I'm hopping a cargo ship. Need to put as much distance as I can between me and that house. I worry if I don't, then eventually I'll go back, and it won't let me leave again.

Statement ends. We have been unable to reach Mister Kaihoko for follow-up, although Miss Hect has confirmed there are several outstanding warrants for his arrest and that the most recent was dated for the twenty-fourth of September, 2015.

I had Gideon look up property listings for white beach houses in the area, though I assumed she would give up after the first hundred or so. To my surprise, she has identified one that matches the description in Mister Kaihoko's statement. It appears to be the only property on Canaan, a dead-end road located in a gap between townships. Mister Sextus was able to locate records for the Canaan house, but they are unhelpful: the listed owner, one Kiriona Gaia, does not appear to exist.

End recording.

<click>

<click>

"Oh, Cam, you got a sec?"

"Camilla. Only the Warden gets to call me Cam."

"Right, sorry. Just, could you double-check this spreadsheet? I'm getting weird errors."

"Budge over."

"…So, why do you call Pal 'The Warden?'"

"Because she's sentimental."

"Sexpal! Hope the line wasn't too long."

"Nothing I couldn't handle. Here you go."

"Cheers, I'm starving."

"Anyway, to answer your question: back at Cambridge, I was volunteering at the university library. Students started calling me Warden because I took the job seriously."

"He stopped them from shagging in the stacks."

"That only happened twice."

"Anyway, fixed it."

"Camilla, you're a genius and a saint. Oh, also, you gonna eat the side bread from your salad?"

"Nah. Here."

"Class. Nonagesimus is always swiping my food, so either I leave out a decoy, or she'll take something I actually want. Been that way since we were kids."

"Fascinating. I'd love to hear about that sometime."

"Not today, Pal. I'm way behind as it is."

"So it goes. Cam, care to eat outside?"

"Sounds good. See you, Ninth."

"Mm-hmm."

…

"Just breathe, Nav. Nobody suspects a thing."

<click>

Chapter Text

<click>

"Griddle, I do not have time for your asinine jokes!"

"I promise, that's his real name. Look, here's the list of his books, records of his property, his obituary, I could even go looking for a birth certificate if you want."

"Is it at least pronounced a different way?"

"Nope, I checked out an audiobook of one of his books, it's said the way it's spelled."

"…Fine. But if you're lying, I'm shoving this tape recorder down your throat. Now get out so I can record without you snickering."

"Yep, on it."

<click>

<click>

Case 9190625, statement of Dr. Donald Sex, regarding his possession of an antique puzzle box. Statement taken from collected journal entries, beginning on the twenty-fifth of June, 1919. Audio recording eighteenth September, 2025, by Harrowhark Nonagesimus, head archivist of the Gaius Institute, Greytown. Statement begins.

25.6.19 - It turns out I had been overcautious in my preparation. The journey from Edinburgh was uneventful, and I have arrived in Oxfordshire a full week before I am expected to present at the university. Having secured lodgings for my extended stay, I find myself excited by the prospect of exploring the town. One shop in particular caught my eye on the coach ride in: Tridentarius Books & Antiques. I cannot identify with precision why my attention lingered on that storefront, only that I did not realize I was staring until after the coach had turned the corner and my view of the sign was blocked.

27.6.19 - I finally had the chance to visit that bookshop, and it was quite the most eclectic collection of old volumes and oddities. I dare say I shall visit them again as many times as my purse allows, for I felt as though I could peruse the shelves for a century and be constantly discovering new wonders. On this occasion, I contented myself with a single purchase: a puzzle box of superlative make. I look forward to solving the thing, as the shopkeep said it had not been opened since before she bought it, though it seems whole and undamaged.

28.6.19 - I brought my new puzzle along to lunch with Professor Trio. To my astonishment, he was utterly dismissive of it, calling it a novelty and laughing at the fee I had paid. Irritated, I pressed him further. He admitted that his assumption of its worthlessness was founded in the material of its construction; namely, the wood matched no tree he could identify, and therefore he assumed the box to be a worthless trifle. Marcus may be a great expert in history, but I must conclude him a bit of a fool here.

29.6.19 - The torrential rain today made an excellent excuse to devote myself more fully to the puzzle box. It is a work of supreme ingenuity, revealing ever more elaborate intricacies at every turn.

30.6.79 - My puzzle confounds me still, yet I am certain I am close to a solution. The pieces expand ever outward, but the pattern seems to be forming into a sphere thrice the volume of the original cube. I sent the maid out to secure more candles, as I estimate that I shan't sleep until this is solved.

2.7.19 - I was awoken by Professor Trio, who informed me that I had neglected to attend my own presentation to the university. Embarrassed, I agreed to reschedule for over-morrow afternoon, which will allow me time to collect myself and organize my notes. I take some small recompense in that he seemed suitably impressed by my progress with the box, but I suppose I must leave it be for now.

10.7.19 - The patterns are of such intricacy. I could never have conceived of something so beautiful. How could Trio have ever decided to smash it? Thank goodness I stopped him. I am so close to discovering the mysteries of this ingenious contraption. Had I been told before purchasing my box that it would expand in such a way, I would have discredited that description as lies or hyperbole. The evident fact that such a device is possible renders obsolete my hubristic assumptions of mathematical knowledge. I know now that I know so very little, and this fractal, spiraling mechanism is the greatest tutor anyone has ever had.

15?.7.19 - I probably should eat something.

?.8.19 - When I tried barricading the door to my apartments, I found that I could manipulate the walls, twisting and unlatching them the same as solving the box. The same was true for the bed, the furniture, Trio, everything. Is every object a puzzle? What could be inside?

42.8.Yes - The puzzle is the universe, expanding forever, and I will keep solving it evermore.

Statement ends. Doctor Sex, known for his work in theoretical mathematics, was discovered dead in his rented apartment in Oxfordshire on the twentieth of August, 1919, along with the mutilated remains of Professor Marcus Trio. Authorities at the time ruled it to be death by suicide, likely the result of stress.

Mister Sextus was able to locate records of Doctor Sex's estate, as he is apparently a distant relative, and there is mention of a puzzle box, though it seems to have vanished in the century since this journal was written.

Miss Hect was able to locate information about Tridentarius Books and Antiques. The Oxfordshire location closed its doors in 1921, but there are currently multiple stores with the same name operating today, including one in Wellington. I would send Gideon to investigate, but she would probably insist on buying something, and our department's budget is stretched thin enough as it is.

Recording ends.

<click>

<click>

…

…

…

"They still haven't read the memo."

"Indeed, Warden."

"Well, I can be patient."

"Indisputably, Warden."

"But the wait is frustrating."

"Indubitably, Warden."

"I'm half tempted to shove it in their faces."

"Indiscrete, Warden."

"Will you stop that, I'm serious."

"So am I."

"No, no, you're right. I just hope they figure it out before something bad happens to them."

<click>

Chapter Text

<click>

"Wait, that's what you use to record?"

"It is more than sufficient for our purposes here."

"I guess, but like, that thing looks like it's older than I am."

"I own pencils older than you. Now either we can record your statement or you can leave."

"Fine, fine, let's do this."

"Case 0252209, statement of Jeannemary Chatur, regarding an encounter in Waikune Prison. Statement taken direct from subject, twenty-second September, 2025. Statement begins."

Well, uh, me and Isaac—Isaac Tettares, my best friend since we were kids— we'd been interested in urban exploration and ghost hunting forever. We watched some of the videos about the exploration of Lake Alice Psychiatric Hospital and how it contributed to efforts towards justice for some of the kids who were sent there. It got us hooked. We started fantasizing about doing something like that ourselves; uncovering the secrets of abandoned places and using them to help people. So, about five years ago, I suggested we start actually trying to become urban explorers.

Isaac insisted we be smart about it. That was always him, looking when I would have just lept. We started doing rock climbing, first aid training, all sorts of stuff . I don't remember when we decided to make a ghost hunting show of our own, but it made sense: if there was a chance we could use this hobby to help people, then we'd also need an audience, and ghost hunting shows are usually more popular than just urban explorer vlogs. Soon enough we'd bought or begged a decent amount of secondhand equipment from friends online.

After three and a half years of prep, we decided to put ourselves to the test. Isaac insisted we start small: going to well-trodden locations to get our footing and learn how to actually make a show. Our first two runs went pretty well, so I know I was feeling confident about Waikune Prison.

So, April 30th, we met up at around 9, stashed our bikes so they wouldn't give us away, and walked up to the prison. It was creepy, yeah, but not in the way we were expecting. Less looming concrete and mysterious noises, more broken glass and dumb graffiti. Even the actual cells felt, I dunno, hollow. We did our best to record footage and some commentary, but neither of us were really feeling it.

I was just about to suggest we leave, when Isaac found something. It was a closet in the old laundry room, smelling of mold and expired bleach. On the floor, there was a large iron ring. He reached down and pulled. It was a trapdoor. We hadn't seen anything like that in any other video about the prison. Obviously we had to check it out.

While I recorded a short bit about the trapdoor, Isaac clipped us onto carabiners that he hooked around the nearest washing machine. It didn't seem like it would support our weight, but he figured if we fell then it would get wedged in the gap and work like a grappling hook.

It took a long time to go down that ladder, but eventually we reached the lowest rung.

I don't actually remember what the room at the bottom looked like. I think it was stone, but it could maybe have been some sort of metal? It was smooth, and when we shone our phone lights on it, there was just a white point of reflection that didn't illuminate anything else. It felt big, though, like whichever way we walked it would just go on forever. We tried to record, to talk about this place, but how can you meaningfully describe absolute darkness?"

…

It was my fault. I called out into the darkness, trying to hear the echo to guess at how big this place might be. My voice bounced back at us, somehow louder than the noise I had made, a cacophony that hurt like someone was shaking me apart. And then I felt Isaac brush past me. He was walking towards the darkness, his own gloved hands pressed against his ears. I grabbed his rope and pulled. Isaac slid briefly across the glassy ground, then lost his balance and fell. He scrambled to get up, still facing the same direction, and as soon as he uncovered his ears he started screaming, and that's when I realized I was screaming too. I dragged him towards the ladder, both of us deafened by the roar of our voices, until I grabbed a rung. I could feel his rope straining under one hand, the iron of the ladder in my other, and my body straining under the pull. I wasn't sure which of those three things was going to snap first.

Isaac turned to look at me. His mouth was still open, but I don't think he was screaming at that point. It looked like something was flowing into him from the darkness all around us. A thick black liquid, rushing like water down the drain. His eyes were so wide open. All I could do was stare as he unclipped his carabiner, turned, and ran into the darkness.

The next thing I remember, a cop was shining her flashlight in my eyes. She'd found me wandering along the highway. When I realized where I was, I turned and tried to run back towards the prison. All I could think was 'he needs me, he could still be alive.' But the cop tackled me and brought me to the station. By the time my oldest sister picked me up, I was still crying. Whatever was down there, it ate Isaac, and it's my fault.

"Statement ends. You have my condolences on the loss of your friend."

"Thanks."

"Do you have any evidence of this trip?"

"What? Well, yeah, you can have the footage, but I mean, it was dark, there might not be anything visible."

"Probably not. But this is an archive, not a curated collection. We will accept anything."

"…What, anything?"

"Anything presented in good faith, Miss Chatur."

<click>

Isaac Tettares is still listed as missing at time of recording. The ghost hunting show he produced with Jeannemary Chatur, "High Fidelity," is… unhelpful, as it seems the two were more enamored with special effects software than they were with academic rigor. Miss Chatur did indeed provide raw footage of the described visit to the Waikune prison facility, and while the majority of it is simply amateur filmography, it does show the trapdoor and an area of poor illumination.

I sent Gideon up to the prison itself to check for any additional evidence of supernatural presence or clues to the whereabouts of Mister Tettares. She was able to confirm the existence of a closet matching the one in the video, though it seems that it has become blocked by a large washing machine that she was unable to move, despite her overloaded musculature.

There is one other thing. Near the very end of the video that we received from Miss Chatur, there is a brief shot of Mister Tettaress walking forward into the darkness, illuminated by her torch. Above him, there is the faint suggestion of a larger shape, only discernible by faint highlights. Mister Sextus and Miss Hect are in agreement that the arrangement of highlights imply a mass of thin tendrils surrounding a softly smiling face.

Recording ends.

<click>

Chapter Text

<click>

Case 0161705, statement of Naberius Tern, regarding a book and its effect on how others perceive him. Original statement given seventeenth of May, 2016. Audio recording twenty-fourth September, 2025, by Harrowhark Nonagesimus, head archivist of the Gaius Institute, Greytown. Statement begins.

It took four bloody hours to get you people to bring me this far, so I hope having something on paper will get you to actually help me instead of just twiddling your dainty academic thumbs.

This time last year I would have assumed you'd know who I was. Naberius "The Prince" Tern, three-time champion of the Australia-Aotearoa Men's Fencing League? At the very least you'd recognize me for all the commercials I was in, or my guest role on Shortland Street in 2014. It's not arrogance for me to say I am a big deal. At least, I was.

Two months ago I was at a fencing club in Auckland, keeping myself sharp and scoping out potential competition for the league tournament. Most of them were utter toothpicks— hobbyists who wouldn't think to riposte if you'd parried yourself for them. There was one, though, who had an absolutely gorgeous feint. I meant to ask them about it in the locker room, but they left before I finished showering. I did see that they'd left a book on the bench. I say a book, it was basically a pamphlet, yellowed and looking like it'd fall apart if you breathed on it. Wouldn't have given it a second thought if not for the title: "A Disappearance."

Now, you see my train of thought, right? I figured this would be a guide on some technique they were using, a how-to on that feint. If I could get a handle on that, then the next three League tournaments were in the bag. So I started reading. I skimmed through the first couple paragraphs, some drivel about seeing and knowing and that sort of tosh, assuming it was like the extended preamble on those recipe blogs. As I flipped through the pamphlet, though, it started to grab me a bit.

In the last few weeks I've done some digging on this book, and the closest thing I can find is a novel by Philip Wylie. The premise of that book is people find themselves in a world where all members of the opposite sex have vanished, so there's a world of just men and a world of just women. But in this version, it's not half of all people who vanish— it's half of each person. It describes people walking around who are just the left half, or the front half, or, in one particularly awful section, just the inner half. The people in this story don't seem affected; at one point it describes someone walking along down the street with legs that aren't there. Then it gets to a bit about two people meeting who suspect they are the two halves of one person, and they each think about trying to unite themselves. They begin avoiding one another, but always find themselves in the same place. Eventually they decide to try merging. It describes the sheer agony they feel as they force themselves into one another, and realize that the parts of them that exist are dissolving into nothingness as they get closer and closer.

At that point I slammed the pamphlet shut. No way was this a fencing booklet, and like hell was I going to read any more of it. I did feel something solid on the inner cover; someone had gone to the trouble of adding a bookplate to this rag. "From the Library of Cassiopeia Shodash." I tossed it into the club's lost-and-found bin and went home.

I got home at about six, so I ordered food and then texted my boyfriend to see if he wanted to come over, maybe stay the night. By half past eight, I'd gotten no reply from either. Fine, whatever, online delivery apps are unreliable and maybe he was out with friends or something. I made myself some eggs and had an early night.

I don't really remember what I dreamed about, but I woke up sweating like a damn pig, so I decided to go for a swim. I jogged down to the gym near my flat, and paused on the way in for some idle flirting with the receptionist. Usually they make a show out of rolling their eyes at me, but this time they just stared. It was weird. The look on their face, it was like they'd never seen me before. Weirder was that they gave me the same look when I left, like they hadn't seen me come in.

It kept happening like that. People seemed to just not recognize me, no matter how long I'd known them. My agent, my boyfriend, even my parents. My IDs were still valid and my cards still worked, at least until the bank terminated my account for suspected fraud. I came home the next evening to find the landlord showing my place to new potential tenants, despite the fact that I still lived there!

I went back to the fencing club to try and find the book, but it was gone from the lost and found. I asked the concierge who it was who took it, but she said they don't give out member information, especially to non-members, and I just left.

I can't handle this. I want my old life. I want to be remembered. I want to exist.

I do exist, don't I?

Statement ends. I can at least confirm that Mister Tern did exist at some point; Mister Sextus was able to locate any number of records mentioning him, even found recordings of some of his fencing matches. He may have been lying about his appearance on the medical drama "Shortland Street," as I- erm, as one contributor does not recognize him, though there are two episodes from that year which are apparently considered "lost media."

Gideon is on sick leave, so I had Miss Hect investigate the fencing club in Auckland; apparently there are several, and Mister Tern's statement does not provide identifying information. She did apparently "learn a few good tricks," so that's nice for her.

But the most important element of this statement in my mind is the reference to Cassiopeia Shodash, whose library is infamous among anyone who has done proper research into the supernatural. It's particularly troubling because the title mentioned does not appear to be on our list of known volumes associated with Shodash. I hesitate to consider how many of her books are still out there, and how many more lives each one will destroy.

Recording ends.

<click>

Chapter Text

<click>

"Harrowhark, what can we do for you?"

"Has Gri- has Miss Nav been in contact with either of you?"

"No."

"Not for a few days, at least."

"Hrm."

"We're worried too."

"Nobody said anything about being worried, Sextus."

"Come off it, boss."

"Cam's right, Harrowhark. Even if she hadn't mentioned how long you two have known one another, it's obvious that you care about her."

"Whatever she said, the two of you have clearly gotten the wrong impression. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to be doing."

"Of course."

"Boss. Your recorder."

"What about it?"

"It's here."

"…So it is."

<click>

<click>

Case 0232002, statement of Constable Marta Dyas, regarding an encounter at a music venue in Tauranga. Original statement given twentieth February, 2023. Audio recording twenty-ninth September, 2025, by Harrowhark Nonagesimus, head archivist of the Gaius Institute, Greytown. Statement begins.

When I was a kid, I wanted more than anything to be a musician. It always seemed so magical, taking something made of wood or metal and using it to inspire powerful emotions in those around you. My mum has tons of photos of me playing with toy instruments or banging on the pots and pans. But everyone in my family has been in either the army or the police, and it seemed like they never even considered that I could break with tradition. I still do love music, which was how I found out about Grifter's Bone.

It had been a tough couple months. My girlfriend had dumped me with no warning, my asshole coworker got promoted to detective, and a raid gone wrong had left me with a stabbed hand and dislocated shoulder. So, during my medical leave, I spent most of my time reading music blogs to take my mind off things. One review talked about about an album so atrocious that "they give Grifter's Bone a run for their money." I'd never heard of that band, but something about the name intrigued me.

Turned out to be a ghost story for music geeks, which I probably would have just forgotten about. What bothered me was that almost every time someone wrote about them in more than a passing reference, they seemed to vanish not long after. I started searching, and was horrified to learn they were all either dead or in prison for murder.

When I was well enough to go back to work, I mentioned it to some of my colleagues. Obviously they dismissed it or laughed, but Grifter's Bone still bothered me. Then, last week, I saw someone online mention that they were excited for a show that Friday at The Hammer, a club not far from where I live. No points for guessing who was playing.

It was still early when I arrived. I didn't get a proper headcount, but I guessed that there were maybe twenty people. I was a little embarrassed because it'd been a while since I'd gone clubbing, and with my out-of-date fashion choices I felt like they would instantly clock me as a cop. I got a drink and tried to discretely observe the stage. Four people, all of them thin as razor wire. The front man was short, wearing an oversized brown suit, and was setting up a keyboard. A few of the patrons clapped and whooped as Grifter's Bone tuned their instruments. I didn't hear him say the words, but I could read the keyboardist's lips as he counted one, two, one two three four.

Let me make one thing clear: I did not bring a gun. Ten years since I was sworn in, and I've pointed a gun at someone maybe a dozen times at most. But when the music started, and the audience began to tear into each other, I realized I was holding a pistol, identical to the one I'd been issued at work. The people around me were consumed with violence, I knew on some level I could have justified defending myself against them. Instead I pointed my pistol at the stage. For some reason I can't explain, I felt the click of the trigger not just in my finger, but in my inner ear.

There was absolute silence for half a second, then the guitarist hit the floor with a soft thump. Every person in that club stared at his crumpled corpse, then turned as one to stare at me. I dropped the gun, my hands shaking. Every person in that audience— even the ones with other people's fingernails ripping into their skin— all of them were waiting for the music to resume. I looked at the keyboardist. He met my gaze, then looked down at the guitar. The rest of the audience cleared a path, still staring, as I walked to the stage and picked it up.

I don't even know how to describe the music we played that night, as the audience tore each other to shreds. It wasn't metal, or hard rock, or any genre I'd associate with violence. It wasn't even a particularly fast tempo. But what mattered was the dance. We were harmonizing, not just with one another, but with the violence in the hearts of our audience.

When it was over, and the others had started packing away their instruments, the keyboardist walked over and shook my hand. He told me in a dry, quiet voice, that he looked forward to our next show, that I have what it takes to serve the Iron Muse. I wanted to stop, to explain, to arrest him, but he just walked away, leaving me with the guitar and case.

While I never officially quit, by now the precinct will have kicked me out. They'll probably find the gun with my fingerprints and come after me soon enough. I'll be long gone by then, off to the next stop on our tour. It's funny, I never thought being a musician would be like this. But it does feel as good as I'd imagined.

Statement ends. Miss Dyas was declared missing in March of 2017. We did reach out to the nightclub, but they deny any violence taking place on February of that year. According to Miss Hect, there were nineteen reported deaths in or around Tauranga around the same time, but no indication of violence, though Mister Sextus seems adamant that local authorities may have suppressed any gruesome details to minimize the effect on tourism.

As an aside, I find myself contemplating the name of the venue. After all, a hammer is not just a tool; it is a component of a gun's firing mechanism, and one of the bones of the inner ear. This is probably just a coincidence, but it— hang on.

Griddle? What are you— WHY DO YOU HAVE A SWORD?

<click>

Chapter Text

<click>

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"Harrow, don't act concerned about me, it's weird."

"Fine. I've got the tape running, now tell me what happened."

"…You gonna do the thing?"

"What? Oh. Right. Case 0253009, statement of Gideon Nav, regarding an encounter she had while on sick leave from her position as archival assistant at the Gaius Institute, Greytown. Statement taken direct from subject, thirtieth September, 2025."

Right, so, this started a few weeks ago, not long after I'd gotten this job. I'd just decided to try out a new dating app; dunno if you've heard of SparksFly? I hadn't either, but every other app I've used has been like ninety percent girls looking to "experiment" or set up threesomes with their boyfriends.

I was a little drunk, I should admit, which is also why I didn't think about how specific some of the account questions were. Stuff like "do you put your bins out the morning of pickup or the night before," "how often do you get friends randomly visiting," "how many windows are in your bedroom."

Didn't actually use the app until the Thursday before last. Wasn't even really paying attention when I got a prompt to try some free trial features. I didn't even click "accept," just the "learn more" button, and my phone went black. I figured it had just crashed, and this was a lesson in not using sketchy apps, so I set it on the charger and got ready for bed. Only problem was, my bedroom ceiling light wouldn't turn off. I had to unscrew the bulbs, and they were so hot I couldn't even touch them without oven mitts. Okay, the wiring was going wrong, that's a problem for the landlord. Then, at 4 in the morning, every light in my flat turns on.

At that point I'm thinking this could be a prelude to something exploding, so I throw on a coat and head outside to call 111. It wasn't until I was out on the sidewalk that I started thinking this might be something spooky. For one thing, it was just my flat that was lit up. I know from experience that the way my building is wired, something going wrong in my place means that whole side of the building is affected, so my neighbors should have been outside. But no, just me.

Then I heard movement. I looked around, and saw the shape of a person standing just on the far edge of a streetlamp, maybe a hundred meters from me. They backed away, retreating into the shadow. Shortly after that the firefighters arrived. I was distracted the whole time they were asking me questions and looking into my flat, but I think they just assumed I was disoriented from being woken up.

I kept trying to convince myself that there wasn't really anything wrong, that I was just freaking out because I'd slept poorly. But my flat stayed lit up like a spotlight for the next several days. And I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. And somehow it was worse when I left the flat. Whatever was watching, it was getting upset that I wasn't where I was supposed to be.

It was maybe the day after I first called out of work when I realized my phone's camera was on. At this point I was delirious with fear and lack of sleep, so it took a while to figure out that it was the dating app. It had been streaming me the whole time. If the view counter was to be believed, hundreds of people were watching me. I tried closing the app, uninstalling it, turning off my phone, nothing worked. Eventually I threw it at the wall and let it clatter to the floor. Then there was this horrific sound of glass cracking and snapping as my phone twisted itself into almost a sitting position to point the camera back at me. I started laughing at the terrifying absurdity of it all, and I don't know how long it took for those laughs to turn into sobbing.

Eventually, I remembered my sword. I'd bought it last year after losing my old job, a sort of cheer-up gift for myself. It wasn't even sharp, but I needed to do something and in that state it was the only thing that made sense. I took it down from its hook and walked over to where my phone still stared. I expected it to scuttle away, or attack, but it just kept staring as I stabbed it. The moment I felt my phone break, every lightbulb in the flat exploded, leaving me in total darkness. But I was still being watched.

Still gripping my sword, I ran outside, looking for whatever was stalking me. It's kind of a blur, but I remember chasing the same figure I saw the night I called the fire department. Except when I caught up to it, it looked at me with… with so many eyes. I just stood there, frozen in place, for I don't know how long.

Then suddenly, something started growing out from between the eyes. Lumps of flesh forcing themselves out of its already-crowded face. Some of the eyes were swallowed completely. Others… burst. Eventually, the creature collapsed to the ground, and I saw who had killed it.

A woman with long curly brown hair, wearing a green dress. She stepped over the twitching body of the eye-thing, and placed her hands on either side of my face. Her skin was feverishly hot. The woman smiled at me like the two of us knew something extra-nice that no one else did. Her eyes were so bright and blue, like a gas fire. I thought for a minute that she was going to kiss me. Instead she just let go. I dropped to the ground as she turned, picked up a pair of crutches leaning against a wall, and walked away.

It was only after maybe an hour of panicked breathing that I realized I was in an alley downtown, or at least as downtown as you can get in Canterton. I thought about going back to my flat, but I just. I couldn't. So I ended up walking all the way here. And, well, Camilla called emergency services, and Pal made me sit down and drink water, and I spent the night in hospital, and now here we are.

"Yes, I suppose here we are."

"I don't have proof, I guess. If you need it, I could loan you the keys to my place, you can see the exploded bulbs and smashed phone."

"No, no. I believe you."

"Dunno what to do now. I don't feel like I'm still being watched, but I still don't think I can handle going home."

"Just rest for now. I'll talk with-"

<door creaks>

"Pardon the interruption."

"Sexpal!"

"Sextus, you're back."

"Thank you both for your patience, it took longer than expected to get what we need."

"What you need? The docs looked me over already, said I should be fine."

"I'm sure the staff at Sutherland did excellent work, but they don't have my resources. Cam?"

"Ready."

"Now, Gideon, this is going to hurt for a bit, but you'll be all right, understood?"

"Pal, what the hell are you- Ah! AUUGH!"

"Got it."

"Unhand her, Hect!"

"It's all right, Harrowhark."

"Like hell it's all right! You just set me on fire!"

"Had to burn out the tumor. Here's the lighter, you should check yourself for more of them."

"What?"

"Hect, Sextus, what the hell is going on?"

"Give me a minute to disinfect the burn and get Gideon an ice pack. Then, Harrowhark, I have some reading for you."

<click>

Chapter Text

<click>

Case 8120108, statement of Cristabel Oct. Original statement taken from a letter to John Gaius, dated first of August, 1812. Audio recording fifth October, 2025, by Harrowhark Nonagesimus, head archivist of the Gaius Institute, Greytown. Statement begins.

To Lord Johnathan Gaius,

You do not know me, but I know well to whom I write. You have some reputation as a man of learning and of charity. Any moments of indiscretion attributable to you has not permeated the gossip of the convent at Tower Hill. I tell myself all this as a way to assure myself that you will not simply discard an unsolicited missive from an unregarded woman of the cloth. Of course, I do know that you will read this letter, for reasons I hope to elucidate forthwith. But first, a question:

How close are you to finding the soul?

Permit me to clarify that this question is not veiled commentary on your own faith or virtue. I know that doubt troubles you, as it troubles all men of learning. But I further know that within your heart dwells indelible conflict. You know, or at least suspect, that powers outside the natural world prey upon those within it, great chthonic parasites latched onto the firmament like ticks biting into animal hide. While I cannot claim insight into their origin or any cognition they might posses, I know that you are positioned to have great influence on their connection to our world.

For as long as I can recall, I have had visions of these dread powers. Every night since childhood, I have lain down to rest and found myself in a grand chamber. I have tried to map the dimensions of this space to no avail, for I can never see the whole room at once. I tend to walk around the circumference of this great room, peering through to other suites of similar dimension. Through the decorated archways, I have seen visions of horror that none should ever witness. A battlefield of weapons that wield their bearers. A theatre of puppets, carved and painted with vile intricacy. A mirrored labyrinth more dangerous for lack of any minotaur. A cocoon of spider silk in the centre of an otherwise empty room, open in naked invitation. Some of these places I have seen many times, others have shifted their form over the years, and a few I have seen but once and never again. In each, I have seen… not people, but the silhouettes of people. Pulsing black tendrils wrapped around the shape of where a person should have been, as if one had sculpted a person out of ice, then wrapped the ice in chicken wire before allowing it to melt, leaving only the wire as a shadow suspended in the air. These void-coloured veins I trace with my eyes down around the empty forms of human bodies, then along the floor back into the chamber where I stand, revealing just before I awaken that my feet rest not upon wood or marble but a great mass of bones, interwoven with these malignant black veins.

Long have I held these dreams secret in my heart, my thoughts cycling between many potential explanations for why they doggedly pursue my slumber. But several years ago, I began to see a person in these dreams. More specifically, I have seen you. I know not why or how your form has come to haunt these visions, but it cannot be coincidence. As such, I have endeavored to provide you with as much assistance as I can reasonably acquire. Enclosed, please find the documentation of my dreams, their iterations denoted to the best of my ability. I cannot know what you will gain from this information, but I believe that you are the one most likely to make use of it for the benefit of the world. As I understand you are soon bound for the South Pacific, it seems the time has come for me to seal and send this information.

Regrettably, I will not be able to join you on whatever venture this information will inspire. I know that my information will be denounced as blasphemy, and thus I will be taking steps tonight to ensure that this information is delivered to you with the greatest haste and the least interference. Even if any of my fellows suspect me of heresy, rare is the one who will reject a nun's last wishes.

Good luck, Lord Gaius.

Ave Maria, gratia plena,
Dominus tecum.
Benedicta tu in mulieribus,
et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus.
Sancta Maria, Mater Dei,
ora pro nobis peccatoribus,
nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.

St-t-tatement... Statement ends.

<click>

<click>

"So, you've both read it?"

"Yop."

"Yes, although I fail to see what you are hoping to prove here."

"Lord Johnathan Gaius failed to see it too. He published her notes as mad ravings of a heretical nun, intending to mock her, but the occult community of the time lapped it up."

"Hang on. If he thought this lady was just off her rocker, why's the Institute named after him?"

"It's not."

"Well, sort of. Lord Gaius married a Māori woman, Mere, and their son was John Gaius the second. He's the one who went on to found the Institute."

"Huh."

"We're getting off track. Sextus, what exactly is so important about this specific statement?"

"It-"

<door creaks>

"Miss Deuteros?"

"Apologies for the interruption, I heard voices and thought I'd investigate. I can't say I expected the archival staff to be here on a Sunday."

"Can we assist you, ma'am?"

"Please, call me Judith. And no, but thank you for the offer. Although— Miss Nav?"

"Yeah?"

"I understand there to be a rumor about someone sleeping in the archives. If that were true, I would be obliged to reprimand them. You tend to be here early, could I ask you to report if you notice anything suspicious?"

"Uh. Sure, I guess."

"Excellent. Well, I'll let you all get back to what you were doing."

<door creaks>

…

"Guess I need to find somewhere else to live."

"Cam, think we can make space?"

"Not likely, Warden."

"You can stay with me, Griddle."

"What?"

"You heard."

"I mean… okay, sure. I'll grab my bag."

<click>

Chapter Text

<click>

Case 0231001, statement of Rubina Tėvas, regarding the unusual behaviour of his roommate at the University of Otago. Original statement given tenth of January, 2023. Audio recording eighth October, 2025, by Harrowhark Nonagesimus, head archivist of the Gaius Institute, Greytown. Statement begins.

To be honest, I don't know if I should be here. What happened was weird, sure, but it might not have been supernatural. Silas was a weird guy.

So, I'm a film student at Otago. It's been a dream of mine ever since I was a kid, when one of my dads showed me his grandpa's movie camera, the kind that uses actual spools of film. I loved that thing so much that when I was packing up for first year, Dad said I should bring it along as a token of home. Papa was worried it would get lost or stolen, but I promised to keep it safe.

When I arrived, I got unpacked and placed the camera on one of the shelves in my new dorm room, still in its case. After I got back from dinner, I got the sense that something was off, but it took me a while to realize that the camera case was open. At the time I didn't think it could have been my roommate, because he hadn't moved in yet. At least, I assumed so, since his side of the room was completely empty.

It was several days before I actually met my roommate, Silas Octakiseron. The guy was a prick. Any time you talked to him, he'd get this expression like you'd just farted in his face and he was making a show out of how much it didn't bother him. As far as I could tell, the only clothes he owned were white shirts and khakis, which he starched obsessively when he wasn't cleaning his one pair of brown shoes.

I assumed Silas didn't like me any more than I liked him, which is why it came as a surprise when he asked me about helping him with a school project, a short film inspired by a section from War and Peace. His proposal matched a project I needed to do for one of my own classes, and my actual friends weren't available, so I said yes. At first I suggested just borrowing equipment from the university, but he insisted that my camera was perfect for the project. I didn't actually have any film for it, but Silas bought some, and we set to work.

The actual filming was kind of a blur. Silas didn't explain much, but I showed his script to a friend. She said that basically he'd cast himself as Tolstoy, reading out some of the essays from the original book, and the rest of the script was a jumble of different scenes from the novel. I wanted to ask Silas about it, but between then and the next time I saw him, I got distracted by the fact that my camera lens was scratched. Eight marks, each going out to the edges of the lens, forming a sort of stop sign shape in the middle. Silas must have been the one to scratch it up, though I only realized that well after the fact. At the time, he just said it was fine, and we should go on filming.

The next thing I actually remember was the day for showing films to the rest of the class. Silas had said he'd handle the editing process. A few minutes beforehand, he showed up with a flash drive, giving me no time to review the work. If I had, I would probably have just smashed it and failed the class.

Apparently, we all were sitting in that classroom for eight hours. None of us could move or look away, and I don't think anyone blinked. We all just stared at the projected image, watching Silas drone on and on from the center, while in all the extra corners were… I don't really remember.

I haven't seen Silas since then. When I returned to our dorm room, the only sign he'd been there was a lingering smell of starch, and my camera case sitting on the little desk on my side of the room. In the time between me lifting the lid and slamming it back down, something like a hundred tiny black spiders scurried out.

Dunno if I'll go back to school. Whenever I think about it, I keep getting flashes of Silas' face droning on, and my skin starts to crawl.

Statement ends. Mister Tevas did return to the university of Otago. When we contacted him, he had changed his major to mathematics and was currently living in off-campus housing. Mister Octakiseron has proven significantly harder to locate. According to Miss Hect, there is no record of him enrolling at the university, or almost anywhere else. Miss Nav's assumption that Silas Octakiseron was a fake name has been discredited, as Mister Sextus has confirmed the existence of other records, including a driver's licence with a photo that appears to match the description provided. Other than that, there is no meaningful evidence to support the statement as written.

Well, that's not entirely true. Records indicate that Mister Tevas did provide a flash drive along with his statement, but it was neither included in the file nor is there documentation of its transfer to artifact storage. I have submitted a request to the Institute's IT department to remind all staff not to use unidentified storage devices, and can only hope that nobody has plugged it in to their computer.

End recording.

<click>

<click>

<door creaks>

"Hect. Sextus. Thank you for agreeing to meet here. Before we get started, would you two mind explaining to Griddle the importance of reMAINING DRESSSED!"

"You don't have HVAC! I said I was sorry!"

"Sorry, Harrowhark, but that's just one of the hazards of cohabitation."

"Not why we're here, Warden."

"Right, right."

"Yes. Take a seat, please, both of you."

<chair scoots>

"So, you've both read the statements we listed?"

"Indeed."

"I skimmed 'em."

"Hrmm."

"They do appear to correlate somewhat with the dream visions described by Cristabel Oct, but that on its own does not support your supposition."

"Not on their own, no. But there's more going on here than that. I think… Cam?"

"Shh. Listen."

…

"There."

"Hect, why are you going through my bag?"

"Here it is."

"My tape recorder?"

"Harrowhark, did you intend to bring that home with you today?"

"No, I did not."

"What the fuck?"

"The ultimate question."

<click>

Chapter Text

<click>

"Are you sure about still using that thing? Pal and Camilla seemed pretty convinced it was spooky."

"I'm not doubting their conclusions, Griddle. The tape recorder may well be connected to one of these 'dread powers,' but if one or more of them is interested in our work then there is little we can meaningfully do to stop it."

"Suppose that makes sense."

"Now, was there anything else?"

"…Do you know which one is listening?"

"I can't be certain without more research. If we're lucky, it's the Eye."

"Lucky?"

"Yes. From what Sextus said, the others are more proactive."

"It got pretty proactive with me."

"There are worse fates. I should know. Here, try this one."

"What?"

"Try reading it into the recorder. I'll give you some privacy."

"Oh. Okay."

<door creaks, then shuts>

"Hmm. Right, let's see. Case 0151903, statement of Violabeth Tridentarius, concerning a book she acquired and its effects on her family. Original statement given nineteenth of March, 2015. Committed to tape twentieth October, 2025, by Gideon Nav, archival assistant at the Gaius Institute. Statement begins."

First let me assure you I will be registering a complaint about the state of this place. The receptionist was gracious enough to provide me with a complaint form after I arrived, but I felt it best to make it clear here as well, in case your institute is one of those places prone to dismissing your clientele. At Ida Ltd, we take client complaints quite seriously.

As CFO, it rarely ever falls to me to interact with our employees at retail locations, but reports had come up about the manager at the Wellington branch. Without getting into detail, she had apparently been preventing customers from purchasing items of significant value. I don't think I need to explain how unacceptable that is, both for short-term revenue and the reputation of our company as a whole. So, when I found myself in the country the December before last, I decided to address the matter personally. Our retail locations are mostly franchises and legally belong to the owner of the property, but I'm quite familiar with the fine print of our contracts and how they can be leveraged in situations like this.

The manager herself was not quite what I expected. She was on the shorter side, in her late fifties I'd guess, and introduced herself as Mrs. Icarus. I did not announce my position or intentions, hoping to see the reported behaviour firsthand.

After maybe twenty minutes, I located something sufficiently valuable: a leather-bound copy of "An Introduction to Higher Anatomy." Sure enough, Mrs. Icarus tried very hard to discourage the transaction, and even went so far as to attempt to wrestle the book out of my hands. When I revealed who I actually was, she ran out of the shop. I should have phoned the police and left the book with them as evidence, but I didn't want to be late getting home.

That night we were celebrating my daughters returning home from their first term at university. I asked them about how school had been, and made gentle suggestions. Among the topics of discussion, I offered to set up appointments for any work they'd like to have done.

Ianthe, my youngest, took offense. I've tried for years to help her, which has led to a campaign of petty rebellion. Her studies this far have been a broad range of nonsensical pursuits, utterly divorced from the business career for which we have sought to prepare her. I've nothing against the sciences, but biology and physics are hardly relevant to the cutthroat world of business management. And Coronabeth, despite being more diligent with preparing for her career, has always been quick to step to her sister's defense. She felt that I was dismissive of Ianthe's studies, which is why she stole the book.

The next two days passed without me actually interacting with my daughters. It grew quite intolerable, the way they treated me with such juvenile contempt. On the third evening since their return, my husband agreed to talk with them, so I poured myself a glass of wine and stepped into the back garden. At some point, I became aware of a faint coppery smell, not unlike steak tartare. Perhaps my husband was trying to placate Ianthe with one of her favorite dishes, but our cook had already gone home for the day. Slowly the smell got stronger until I could almost taste it. With halting curiosity, I went back inside.

To be honest, I don't know why I followed that hideous odor up three flights of stairs and down the hall to the twin's bedroom, neither do I know what I expected to find when I opened the door.

My husband lay on the floor. At first I thought he was in pieces, but I realized that the organs spread across the room were still all connected to one another. Worse, he was still alive. Near my feet lay his head, relatively whole, esophagus gently twitching as he whimpered in pain.

In the centre of the room stood Ianthe, the book in her hand and Coronabeth sat at her feet. The pair of them turned to look at me. I wanted to ask what they thought they were doing. I wanted to run and phone the police. I wanted this not to be happening. But it was. And when Ianthe gestured for me to sit next to Coronabeth, I did.

If you've ever had children, you might remember how, when they grow old enough to talk, they'll sometimes insist on teaching you something they've only just learned. I couldn't help thinking about that as Ianthe picked up my husband's organs one at a time, lecturing all three of us about their functions, variations, and common ailments, even as he wailed in agony.

The last part of the lesson was the heart. Ianthe explained how it contracts to pump blood through the respiratory system, then she unrolled it, still beating, into a thick shape of muscle. Without hesitation, she lifted the heart to her mouth and bit down. My husband screamed. I screamed. Ianthe screamed, blood dripping down her chin. I don't recall if Coronabeth screamed. She must have. Then Ianthe raised her head again, her face covered in red so dark as to be nearly black. She blew us a kiss before falling backwards into the pool of blood. With a viscous splash, she vanished. I haven't seen her or the book since then.

By the time the police had arrived, my husband was dead. Coronabeth and I were in shock, and I took her out of school for a while so we could recuperate together at a clinic in Switzerland. She's doing quite well. After she finishes her degree, I'm planning to offer her management of the Wellington location. Mrs Icarus has apparently vanished, and hopefully I will never see her again.

I want to pretend that I don't remember that grotesque lesson, but every word is etched on my mind like grill marks on a steak.

"Statement ends. Gross. Yuck. The worst."

<door creaks>

"Finished?"

"I mean, I could probably go on about how I regret eating lunch before this. What exactly are you trying to prove, Harrow?"

"I am trying to prove to you that there are dangers far greater than being observed. Going forward, we will need to be very careful about risk assessment."

"You're dancing around something. Spit it out."

"I think you should quit."

"Piss off."

"I'm serious. Remaining employed here is likely to be dangerous. Please understand, Griddle, I strongly suspect that the Institute is deeply connected to these dread powers."

"No shit, gloom mistress."

"Pardon?"

"I'm not that stupid, Harrow. Obviously there's something weird going on. But you're not getting rid of me that easy."

"…No, I suppose I'm not that lucky."

<click>

Chapter Text

<click>

Case 9930509, statement of… of Aiglemene Nav, regarding an encounter in a Vietnamese prison camp circa 1968. Original statement given fifth September, 1993. Audio recording twenty-second October, 2025, by Harrowhark Nonagesimus, head archivist of the Gaius Institute, Greytown. Statement begins.

Whenever I hear Americans talk about the Vietnam war, they seem to think they were the only nation involved. Truth be told, I'm not in a hurry to correct them. Best case scenario they'd be able to commiserate over lives that shouldn't have been taken. Worst case, they might treat me like a comrade.

Nothing of a person truly survives warfare except their loyalty. Me, I was loyal to Corporal Mortus Nigenad. The two of us came up from Drearburgh, a little town on Stewart Island, about as far south as you can get in this country. When Mortus volunteered, I went with him. We saw death and pain, and caused more of it than anyone should ever have the chance to do. Setting land mines was particularly distasteful to me. Killing or maiming someone without giving them the chance to fight back or even know who'd killed them, it was… unsporting. But I did it just the same.

It was more than a year after our deployment when Mortus and I were captured. I don't know the actual name of the village; at the time I assumed it was called "ngừng nói," and only later learned that our jailers were just telling me to shut up. Two months we spent crammed into a tiny room with only a single small gap in the wall for a window, boredom interspersed with torture, me, Mortus, and a Yank lieutenant named Davith. He seemed convinced it was up to him to get us through our imprisonment. Poor bastard.

The day it happened was sweltering hot and humid. I could hear locals moaning about the weather to one another right up until they were drowned out by the roar of the engine. Davith began yelling about how we were going to be rescued. Mortus and I looked at one another, and I could see that he felt the same thing I did; a powerful sense of fear.

I don't know if you're familiar with the effects of Agent Orange. The smell hit us first, a damp, noxious odor like mouldy cigarettes. From our little window I could see foliage starting to wither, as though life was a burden they had simply decided no longer to bear. People screamed and ran, ripping off their polluted clothes, dunking their blistering faces into whatever water they could find.

One pair caught my attention. A small girl, trying to go into the dying foliage, straining against the pull of a young woman. God only knows what she wanted in there. I watched the child slip out of the woman's grasp and bound into the mass of shriveling flora, the young woman running after her. I ignored Davith saying we should use the opportunity to escape and Mortus trying to jostle me out of the view. My focus was locked on the patch of greenery where the two villagers had disappeared. Then came the explosion, and as flames swelled in the jungle I knew that the pair of them had triggered a mine.

I stood frozen for several long moments, watching the fire dance behind the rotting leaves. Then the flame and poison somehow began twisting a way so bizarre that I thought I was hallucinating. From out of the jungle, the fire walked. Not spreading across the murdered plants, not consuming. It walked on two legs, writhing like a man in pain, before rearing back and shrieking the way a missile screams across the sky.

That was when Mortus pulled me away from the window. While I'd been staring, he and Davith had knocked out the guard and stolen their gun. We were still all chained together for now, but the three of us were able to get out of our prison. At that point we were the only living humans in the village, which I assume is what attracted the attention of the burning monster.

There was a mad scramble of half-broken limbs, and I was on the ground. My skin cracked and blistered as the noxious burning thing stalked towards me, reaching out with one incandescent hand, and grabbed my leg. The stench of that moment was like rotten pork on the grill. I felt the bones snap and crumble into ash. As the flesh burned away, I saw a face forming in the fire, a charcoal mask. The face was feminine, and in that moment of blinding agony, all I could think was how beautiful she was.

That's when Davith tackled the burning creature, and Mortus grabbed my arms. He dragged me away from the village. I could hear the sound of Davith and the fire monster screaming for hours, long after night had fallen. Eventually he dragged me back to base, and I was shipped off home with a ceremonial promotion and honourary discharge. Two years later, Mortus returned to Drearburgh with his new wife. Their son is about nine years old now.

Nothing of a soldier survives except their loyalty. Not their honor, not their dignity, often not even their humanity. I didn't expect to receive the loyalty of Davith, and I'm grateful to him. I hope that's the end of the story, but sometimes I still catch a whiff of that mouldy cigarette stench.

Statement ends. I have not asked the other archival staff to follow up this statement, as I do not believe it would be possible to maintain… proper academic detachment, as Aiglamene was foster mother to archival assistant Gideon Nav from 2001 to 2019. I can at least confirm that she did indeed serve in the Vietnam War, that one of her legs was amputated just above the knee, and that—according to Griddle—the skin of that leg up to the hip retains scarring consistent with severe burns.

Recording ends.

<click>

<click>

"So like, where's the line between different fears?"

"That's a very good question. To be honest, I have doubts that any taxonomy can be truly accurate. Many use Christabel's fourteen as a guide, but reading even a handful of statements makes it obvious that there are grey areas."

"Right, I think I get that. Like, that cave diving one. It wasn't just about being underground, it was also darkness and dying."

"Well said. I sometimes wonder if the End is more of a meta-power, flowing through and around the others."

"So, if the powers can't really even be understood, how are we supposed to fight them?"

"Pardon?"

"Isn't that the goal? Aren't we trying to figure out how to kill the powers and get the world back to normal?"

"I don't—Gideon, as far as I can tell, the great fears have always existed. Even if it's possible to kill them, there may not be a 'normal' to go back to."

"…Oh."

"You okay?"

"It's fine."

<chair squeaks>

"I'm going home. Tell Harrow I had a stomach bug or something."

"I— sure, okay."

<door creaks and closes>

<long exhale>

<click>

Chapter Text

<click>

Case 0031108, statement of Capris Asht, regarding a new employee of his taxidermy shop in Hobart, Tasmania. Original statement given eleventh of August, 2003. Audio recording twenty-seventh October, 2025, by Harrowhark Nonagesimus, head archivist of the Gaius Institute, Greytown. Statement begins.

My family has been in the taxidermy business for a long time. Mother would sometimes tell stories about her grandfather running one of the first shops in Friesland open to the public. He took pride in showing his work to fascinated customers and trembling children. So, when I moved to Tasmania, opening a shop of my own felt like a good way to keep in touch with that part of my family.

I've been proprietor of of the Trophy Room for about seven years. It's about as successful as you get in the business these days. Successful enough that I was able to hire an assistant. The short young man I hired said his name was Ram. When he shook my hand, his palm wasn't hot or sweaty, nor was it cold with poor circulation. His skin felt like it was about the same temperature as the room. When I introduced myself, he smiled an odd little smile, head tilting to the side. "Isn't that funny," he said. "My last name is also Asht."

The first three months were fine. Ram did as he was asked with an odd sort of cheer, as if he was amused at the novelty of operating a cash register or stacking containers of sawdust. My mistake was teaching him the actual craft.

We'd just gotten a devil carcass in. I didn't have a buyer lined up, but they tend to go quickly. Ram patiently watched as I walked him through the process of setting up the wool and wire mannequin for the body, cleaning the skin, arranging, stuffing, brushing, and setting the glass eyes in place. All the while his jaw was set in what I would have guessed was squeamishness or nerves. Then I told him to try it for himself. He pounced on the poor thing like a vulture eager to gorge itself. I wanted to tell him not to rush, but almost before I could speak he turned his head around and smiled, arms still working with speed and precision unlike anything I've seen. Mumbling something about checking the books, I retreated to my office and locked the door.

Eventually, there came a knock on the door to my office. When—

<knocking, door creaks>

"Hope I'm not interrupting?"

"Miss Dueteros? To what do I owe this visit?"

"Just giving a tour to our new intern. Jeannemary, this is Harrowhark."

"Um, hi."

"Yes, we've met. Apologies, but I am in the middle of a recording."

"No worries. Come on, Jeannemary, let's leave her to it."

"Right."

"Oh, and Harrow, don't forget about the Halloween party next week!"

"Understood."

<door closes>

_{"Is she always like that?"}

"Statement resumes."

When I opened the door, he presented me with the most perfect specimen I'd ever seen. Aside from the glass eyes and stillness, the devil looked like it could just walk out the door. Ram smiled blankly at me and asked if he'd done a good job. I nodded, trying to pretend that I didn't feel unaccountably sick to my stomach.

Ram's first mount sold better than I could have anticipated, so I didn't have any reason to stop him from making more. Almost every day he would present me with something that should have taken at least twice as much time. The second week, he started getting… creative. I don't know how familiar you are with the history of the profession, but Ram seemed intent on single-handedly bringing back every fad and trend from the last two centuries. The costumes and pantomime scenes were all right, but then he started making fantasy creatures and mutated animals. At some point I stopped wondering where he was getting the skins.

It was back in June when I finally ran. I'd been avoiding the shop as much as possible, as I had become convinced that Ram was there all hours of every day. And indeed, when I entered the back room as quietly as possible, he was there, arranging perfectly white human teeth into the mouth of a large frog. Ram didn't seem to notice me as he opened the drawer of glass eyes, selected one, and popped it into his mouth. The grinding sound of him crunching it between his molars still haunts me at night.

I'm not a young man, but I sprinted back to my flat and began packing. I'd just about crammed my two suitcases to bursting when the knock came at my door, turning my blood to formaldehyde. The knock came again. Slowly, I walked over and opened the door. I was so convinced Ram would be stood there waiting for me, but instead there was a large brown package. Numbly, I pulled it inside and removed the wrappings. It was a wool and wire mannequin, just like the ones we used in the shop, though folded up a bit to fit in the box. With trembling fingers, I unfolded it into a human form, one just about my size.

That night, I took the ferry to the mainland. Got a hotel room in Melbourne and stayed there for a few days while I made arrangements to stay with my little brother, Colum. It took a few weeks for me to explain to him what had happened, and he suggested I come here. Funnily enough, Mister Quinque was actually a good customer of mine. Don't know if he's still buying from my old shop, but I'm done with taxidermy. Hopefully, taxidermy is also done with me.

Statement ends. We were unable to reach Mister Asht for follow-up. Colum Asht still lives in Christchurch, and told Mister Sextus that his brother emmigrated to the Netherlands in 2015, but they apparently haven't spoken since February 2022. The Trophy Room is still listed as open for business, though we were not able to reach them by phone or email. Miss Hect did note that the store was purchased in 2006 by Ida Ltd., which the recording for case 0151903 failed to mention is a member of the Dominicus Conglomerate.

It was not a surprise to hear that Alfred Quinque, previous head of the Gaius Institute, was a customer of the Trophy Room. To this day, a pair of antique dodo bird mounts are on display in the office now occupied by Judith Dueteros. That said, his comment implies a notable quantity of orders. I find myself wondering why, and where those specimens are now.

End recording.

<click>