Chapter Text
Title: The Reader’s Archive
Chapter 1 – The Voice Beyond the Tape
You always liked to listen at night.
There was something strangely comforting about Jonathan Sims’ voice in the dark—precise, tired, and just a little too human for all the horrors it carried. It grounded the fear. Even when the stories grew strange or unbearable, you could pause, take off your headphones, and remind yourself: it’s only a podcast.
Until it wasn’t.
Tonight, the hum of your laptop fan filled the quiet room. The glow of the screen painted the ceiling in soft blue light. You were halfway through a relisten of The Magnus Archives, somewhere between Season 4’s unraveling chaos and your third cup of tea.
It was supposed to be background noise. But this time… something was off.
You rewound a few seconds. Jon’s voice crackled faintly through static.
> “Statement of—”
A pause. Longer than usual.
> “No… that’s not right.”
You frowned. That wasn’t in the episode. You knew it by heart.
The recording rustled with the sound of papers. Jon’s voice came back, quieter now, almost uncertain.
> “Who… who’s listening?”
You froze.
> “You. You can hear me, can’t you?”
Your throat tightened. “What—”
> “Don’t speak,” the voice said sharply. “It’s listening, too.”
Static rose like a wave, swallowing the words. Your screen flickered—once, twice—and then the file’s timestamp glitched. The counter rolled backward, like the episode was rewinding itself.
You tugged your headphones off. The audio didn’t stop.
Jon’s voice filled the room, no longer coming from the laptop but from somewhere behind you—faint, overlapping, almost echoing through the walls.
> “The Beholding sees you, [Your Name].”
Your name. He’d said your name. Clearly, calmly, like it had been written in one of those old statement files all along.
The temperature dropped. You could see your breath cloud in the air.
Then—another sound: the crack of a cassette being inserted, the click of a record button.
> “Statement of [Your Name], given direct to the Archivist.”
You spun in your chair.
The wall behind you wasn’t a wall anymore. It was glass—old, thick, grimy with age. And through it, beyond your reflection, you saw the office.
Rows of shelves. Yellowed files. Dust motes drifting in the low light.
The Magnus Institute.
Jon Sims sat at his desk, head bent over a recorder. His pen paused mid-note, and slowly, he looked up.
For a second, your eyes met through the glass—your world reflected in his, and his bleeding into yours.
> “You shouldn’t be here,” he whispered.
The reflection cracked.
The static screamed, the light tore itself apart, and the world folded inside out—
—until you were falling through sound and shadow, the smell of dust and paper filling your lungs, the click of tape reels turning somewhere far too close.
And when you finally hit the ground, gasping, everything was quiet.
You lifted your head.
Jon Sims was standing over you, one trembling hand still holding the recorder. His cardigan was rumpled, his eyes tired but piercing. Behind him, Martin peered in through the half-open door, a mug in hand and worry written clear on his face.
Jon took a breath, then said softly—
“Welcome to the Archive.”
And you realized, with a sinking
feeling that felt almost like awe—
you weren’t listening to the story anymore.
You were inside it.