Work Text:
MAG041 – Resident JONATHAN SIMS– “To Read”
KEEPER
Internal interview with Jonathan Sims, Record Keeper of the Magnus Sanctuary, regarding exploration of the tunnels recently discovered below the Records Room. Interview given directly, 2nd September 2016. Interview, uh… Interview begins.
KEEPER (INTERVIEW)
It's been two weeks since I was cured and… And I've been going into the tunnels.
Jane Prentiss and her flock are still alive, which is reassuring, if… unnerving. Every so often I spotted a small bird in the hallways, eyeing me with some small measure of curiosity. I will begrudgingly admit that I am glad to have someone watching over us… even if she is, of course, directly going against my wishes by doing so.
I am the only one here. I asked Mr. Bouchard to give Martin, Tim, and Sasha another week, which he granted. I told him that I will be working on weekends in order to make up for lost time, which he once again granted. In reality, I have simply been building a map of the maze that has apparently been beneath our feet. I’ll… I’ll get to that. Soon.
… I know that she can’t listen through her birds’ ears. She can only watch through their eyes. So why… Why do I feel like I’m not talking to myself? Why do I feel like someone is listening to me spill my guts when I make these recordings, like someone is hearing the stories I tell, or the sentiments I vent? And… And why doesn’t it bother me to share all these secrets?
… It’s funny, really. Even with my newfound respect for the people who come in for interviews, and my want to hear their stories, I always find myself irritated at the stall. All the meaningless preface before the inevitable mention of the supernatural. And yet, here I am, unable to get to the reason I started recording this memo to begin with.
I have been exploring the tunnels.
… I say tunnels, but that denotation is… misleading to say the least. The labyrinth beneath this sanctuary was not constructed to be the empty and decrepit catacomb that it is today: I cannot be certain, but I believe them to be the sunken remains of what was once The Millbank College... Otherwise known as The Millbank College for the Unwell and Unusual. As the deeply antiquated title would imply, the college was a place of education for those declared “Unfit” , “Infirm” , “Unstable” and, most damningly, “Feebleminded” by the standing eugenicist education system of the time.
While most colleges would reject those with obvious physical or mental disabilities- Or, for that matter, any woman displaying the catch-all illness of “Hysteria”- Millbank welcomed such people with open arms. It produced some of the most prolific disabled historical figures of our history, and the success of its students was critical to discrediting the eugenicist propaganda of the 19th century. It was tragically leveled by an unknown arsonist’s explosives in 1890, which opened a massive sinkhole in the earth. The college sank down into the earth, killing hundreds. And, some time later… The Sanctuary was built on its remains.
My time in the tunnels has been… Haunting. So many dead lay here in what was once a house of education and belief, now little more than a tomb. Skeletons, huddled together, clutching books. Journals falling from their places. Bookbags. What could I learn, then, by looking deeper into this place? By finally mustering the courage to crack open these dusty tomes, these journals containing the only living memory of a long dead time? Who were these students? What were their experiences? How were their teachers? Why did they still seek a higher education when rejected by every other institution? Were they… happy?
But I will never know. Because every time I have moved aside the filing cabinet atop the trapped door I have become… overwhelmed. An instinct rises up in me, something deep and primal and… shameful. The notion that what lies beneath the trapdoor is sacred, that to disturb it would be unforgivable. And each time I have ignored it, only for the deep guilt to magnify. Every moment I spend down there is… It’s a self-conscious hell. I feel little better than a tomb-robber, taking secrets not my own. And that’s just when I am simply walking through the empty, spacious hallways… when I dare to reach for a book, or gaze into the empty eye sockets of a student, I am filled with a deep, screaming, self revulsion. Even in their death, I cannot bring myself to breach the privacy of ages-gone students.
But when I push through, when I ignore the guilt... I often find myself lost in the halls. They are… Larger… than they are, in an average school building. The ceiling seems to be… 5 meters up. So high up, even, that it… that it should be breaking up through the floor of the Sanctuary in places. It’s impossible, this… breach of spatial laws … And it becomes dizzying, at times, in the places where the ceiling has not caved in.
There was only one room where that tomb-raiding guilt and dizziness did not do all it could to repel me from the place. The college’s library. And it was… beautiful. So many books. So many, many, many books. First editions, histories, novels, symphonies, poems… The kind of thing that could bring an anthropologist to tears. And when I pushed on through the wide oaken double doors, my flashlight shining into the room… I genuinely had to resist bursting into tears of joy at the sheer relief I felt.
I slumped down into a chair beside the door, a wide smile set on my face. This place felt so very… Welcoming, to me. Whether it was the books, the freely available lounge chairs, or a simple lack of irrational guilt as compared to the rest of the sunken school, I finally felt… comfortable. So, I did as anyone of my disposition would do, and started to browse the library.
The first thing I noticed was the book bindings. On each and every book read the phrase "From the Library of J... L..." , with the names following each of those two letters entirely blacked out in pen. The same was true of many of the books' titles, and- much to my dismay- the contents themselves. Needless to say I was… more than frustrated. Not only had so many of these books been ruined and defaced, but I had once again found myself face to face with another trove of… Secrets. Things kept hidden. Private.
I began to search further, now frantically tearing books from the shelves. I would find a clear, clean, book- I had to. And after some time, I finally did: "The History Of Deception" by Hans Georgeson.
The irony of the only clear and unmarked book being a book dedicated to secrecy and lies did not occur to me until recording this memo.
Upon retrieving the book, I found my seat at a nearby table. I took a deep breath, cracked open the centuries-old tome once more, and began to breathe. Upon reaching chapter three, Map Codes, I instinctively reached for the coffee mug on the table. I took a long, deep sip, and my face soured at the surprisingly bitter taste. And… That was when I was struck by a realization.
The coffee mug wasn't mine. More to the point, the coffee within it should have rotted to nothing but sludge by now. So… who had brought it here?
All at once, that terrible feeling of encroaching on privacy rushed back into my heart. I bolted up from my seat, grabbing the book and running for the door. I ran, and ran, and ran, and all the way there I felt overpowered and overwhelmed by feelings alien to me, feelings that could not have been my own. The hallway seemed to stretch on forever, even if it only took me forty five seconds to reach the trapdoor once more.
… my flashlight went out as soon as the door was open again. The battery had died. I had been down there for too long, evidently… but it hadn't seemed to dim at all.
KEEPER
… I haven't gone down there again. I can't bring myself to.
For now, I will be sending this book to the sanctuary's librarian- one Mr. Alexander- in order to have it evaluated. It may prove useful at a later date.
For the time being… I have to check up on my confidants.
[THE SOUND OF PHONE KEYS BEING DIALED.]
… Sasha?
… Yes, it's me, Jon.
… I'm doing just fine, thank you. And you?
… That's wonderful. I'll see you in a few days then?
… Delightful. Have a good night.
[A HANG-UP NOISE. THEN, MORE DIALING.]
… Martin?
… Yes, it's me, Jon.
[CLICK]