Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Heeeeelllooo, everybody!” The woman, dressed in a simple graphic t-shirt, waves delightedly at the camera. “I’m Georgie Barker—“

In stark contrast, the man to the left is dressed more or less like an English professor fresh out of a lecture. “And I’m Jonathan Sims—“

“Jon!” Georgie glares.

“What.”

“You promised you’d do The Voice!”

Jon sighs, and the look he gives Georgie is exasperated and helpless. She just giggles, knowing that she’s won.

He takes a deep, long-suffering breath, and continues in what Georgie lovingly calls his Narrator Voice, startlingly reminiscent of a horror movie introduction.

“And I’m Jonathan Sims.”

Georgie claps and cheers while Jon puts his head in his hands.

“And welcome back to What the Ghost!”

She grins, and the intro plays—‘spooky’ music overlaying the designs and clips she spent long, long hours putting together, until Jon’s Narrator Voice filters over the sound.

“The Anglerfish.”

“You all should be warned,” Georgie says conspiratorially to the camera as the intro cuts away. “Jon hated researching this one.“

“Because it was awful,” Jon groans. “There was literally only his account to go on, not a single person able to corroborate his story, not a single—“

“Okay, okay, let them hear it first, yeah?” Georgie snickers.

“Fine.”

The camera cuts away, and as Jon’s prerecorded summary begins, Georgie’s images and video support it (for the drama, she always grins.)

“A couple of years ago—specific date unknown—Nathan Watts, a second year biochemistry student at the University of Edinburgh was attending a party. Watts and his friends, celebrating one of said friends’ accomplishments at university, got very, very drunk.

G: Oh, I see.

J: Exactly! He was drunk! He admitted he was drunk!

G: And now you can’t trust a word he says?

J: Would you?

G: I mean... maybe? Hallucinations aren’t a common symptom of drunkenness, are they?

J: That’s fair, but cognitive impairment definitely is.

”After finding himself violently ill around midnight, Watts decided to walk home.

G: Now that’s a terrible idea!

J: Proper horror movie logic.

G: Walking around the streets alone, at midnight, while drunk? I’m surprised he didn’t get kidnapped or something.

”He headed for the Cowgate, choosing Old Fishmarket Close as his route, which is on a very steep hill. In his state, he ended up falling forward about halfway down the street.

G: Ouch.

J: Heh, talk about road rash.

G: Jon!

“Shaken by the fall, he decided to roll a cigarette.

G: Nasty habit.

J: The only reason I quit was you.

G: Is that a compliment? I’m going to take that as a compliment.

J: You should.

”And that was when he heard it.

’Can I have a cigarette?’

”Startled, as he had thought he was alone, Watts looked around until he spotted a small alleyway on the opposite side of the street. It was very narrow, and completely unlit with a short staircase leading up. He could see a light fixture a little way up the wall at its entrance, but it either wasn’t working or wasn’t turned on, meaning that beyond a few steps the alley was shrouded in total darkness.

G: Spooky.

J: [Exasperated sigh]

“Standing there, a couple of stairs up from the street, was a figure. It was apparently hard to tell much about them as they were mostly in the shadows, but Watts reported the voice sounding male. The figure seemed to sway, ever so slightly, and he assumed that it was drunk as well.

G: Pfft. Never assume anything. Ever. At all.

J: That would seem to be the smarter route.

”He lit his own cigarette and offered his tobacco to the figure, asking if they’d be okay with a roll-up.

G: Can’t say I’d ever be that considerate to a random swaying stranger in a dark alleyway, to be quite honest.

J: Absolutely not. I’d be running for my life right about then.

G: Coward.

J: [Incredulous sputtering]

”The figure only responded by asking the question again: ‘Can I have a cigarette?’ Watts was apparently beginning to feel uneasy at this point, but wasn’t entirely sure why until the figure’s features came into focus. According to his report, their face was blank and expressionless, with slightly damp and sunken skin. The swaying became more pronounced. Having finished rolling his second cigarette, Watts offered it to the figure.

G: What?! Why?! Why is he still anywhere in that vicinity? How is this man still alive?

J: All good questions. I’m wondering myself if it was just alcohol impairing his judgement, or if that judgement was... already impaired.

G: Mean. But... well. This guy is being an idiot.

”The figure made no move towards the cigarette, only continuing to sway. Watts was apparently rather insistent upon his comparison to an anglerfish.

G: I like that, actually. It wanted to draw him closer with that swaying and the question, like an anglerfish draws in its victims.

J: Hm.

G: Oh, stop being bitter.

”Watts, upon looking closer, reported that its feet were apparently not touching the ground—the figure was actually being lifted and gently moved from side to side.

G: Another win for the anglerfish comparison.

”He tried to turn on his phone’s torch to get a better look, but as soon as he took out his phone, the figure folded at the waist and vanished into the darkness. He found a taxi to take him home.

J: At last, he got a taxi.

G: Not going to address the creepy swaying vanishing figure?

J: ...

”Upon returning to the spot the next day, he found nothing of consequence except a single unsmoked Marlboro Red cigarette, lying just below the burned out light fixture. Watts did some of his own research—he is apparently certain it was not a hallucination, but wasn’t able to find anymore evidence about the figure. However, a few days later, he noticed missing person appeals around his campus for another student named John Fellowes. In the missing person appeal, the man had a pack of Marlboro Red cigarettes poking out of his pocket.”

The camera returns to Georgie and Jon, sitting at their studio’s table in desk chairs.

“That was a weird one!” Georgie looks thrilled, and wiggles her eyebrows at Jon, who rolls his eyes.

“Too weird. Weird enough that I found almost no corroborating evidence at all for Mr. Watts’ story.” But even as he speaks, he’s digging papers out of a folder.

“Almost, not none.” Georgie’s voice is light and teasing, but tinged with a greater curiosity.

“There have been, between 2005 and 2010, which is when Watt’s account most likely took place, six disappearances in and around the Old Fishmarket Close: Jessica McEwen in November 2005, Sarah Baldwin in August 2006, Daniel Rawlings in December of the same year, then Ashley Dobson and Megan Shaw in May and June of 2008. Then finally, as Mr. Watts mentioned, John Fellowes in March 2010. All six disappearances remain unsolved.” Jon slides the papers over to Georgie’s side of the table.

“Oh yes, that’s not suspicious at all.”

“I have one more thing for you.” Jon’s voice loses some of its flat analytical tone, and he smirks at Georgie a bit. He hands her his phone.

“This is the last picture taken by Ashley Dobson’s phone. It looks like an empty alleyway, but you might be able to work some of your magic?”

“Hell yeah I can! Gimme a sec!”

The screen cuts out to read “Please Wait” as a quick, non-copyrighted rendition of the Jeopardy song plays.

“Alright—look at this!”

She shows the phone first to Jon, who raises an eyebrow, and then to the camera. The vague shape of a hand is reaching out from the darkness.

“That’s certainly something,” Jon muses. “Still could’ve been a regular drunk creep, though. Or some kind of serial killer with a weird MO.”

“Pfft. Look at that hand, Jon! Does that look like a human hand to you?” Georgie shoves the phone right into Jon’s face, and he scrunches his face and leans back.

“I think it could be some kind of weird supernatural lure,” Georgie sets the phone down and continues. “I still really like the anglerfish connection. Maybe it was some creature’s victim, hung up like a puppet to convince people to get closer?”

“Much more likely Watts was drunk and freaked out by a weirdo in an alleyway, though.”

“Maybe the lure was never a person to begin with, just some kind of sick facsimile, built into the creature’s defense mechanisms.” Georgie pretended she didn’t hear him.

“What kind of creature would do that, though? Seems like a bit of a roundabout method.”

“Hey! It can’t help how it was made!”

“Oh yes, defend it for feeding on humans. Oh wait, it doesn’t even matter does it? There is no bioluminescent fish creature with a human on a hook. Watts! Was! Drunk!” Jon nearly smacks Georgie in the face, gesturing broadly, but she’s used to it by now and ducks his hand expertly.

“Mhmm. You just don’t want to admit that a bioluminescent fish creature with a human on a hook is actually really cool.” Georgie smirks.

“Really now—“

“You wish you were a bioluminescent fish creature with a human on a hook.”

“Good lord.”

“Well that’s all for today, folks!” Georgie laughs, while Jon puts his head in his hands. “Don’t forget to like, comment, and subscribe! You’ll keep What The Ghost alive—or should I say undead? And follow our new Instagram!”

“Donate to our Patreon and you get blooper compilations, the Admiral extras, and more.” Jon doesn’t look up, and his voice is slightly muffled. Georgie laughs and pushes his shoulder, and the video cuts out into an outro advertising a few more videos.

—————

“Tim! Watching YouTube on company time? How darest thou!” Sasha drapes her arms across Tim’s shoulders.

“Oh! Mine Archivist, thou hast caught me in thy trap!” Tim looks back at her, winks, and grins his Signature Tim Smile, Guaranteed Or Your Money Back! Sasha laughs, and the weight on his back relents, so Tim turns to face her.

“Actually,” he smirks, “this is work-related.”

“Oh?”

“Yep! A few of these episodes overlap with the statements.” He clicks a few minutes back in the video, so Jon and Georgie are both visible. “The guy on the left there—he’s a huge nerd, and includes all their sources in the description. All I need to do is double check them, and bam!”

“Wait, really?” Martin, in the desk across from him, looks up from the dauntingly large tome he’s reading—ready as always to use any advantage he can.

“Look here!” Tim clicks the description, and a long list of APA-formatted links and sources unfurls.

“Oh that’s going to come in handy,” Martin’s eyes widen. Sasha snickers.

“As long as you all don’t tell Elias, I won’t snitch.” She winks.

“Best boss ever!” Tim cheers, and Martin claps.

“I know!”

Chapter Text

“Hello, lovely viewers! I’m Georgie Barker—“ Georgie begins to wave at the camera, but stops short, glancing concernedly at Jon, who has spun his chair to face away from the camera entirely.

“You good?” Georgie raises a brow.

“Jon?”

“Joooooon?”

Slowly, he spins his chair to face the front. He’s petting a ridiculously fluffy and very content ginger cat, eerily reminiscent of a supervillain.

”And I’m Jonathan Sims.”

Georgie cackles until Jon’s forced to break character and laugh with her. Disgruntled, the Admiral huffs and leaps out of Jon’s arms.

“Come back! No,” Jon tries in vain to hide a laugh behind his hand, “traitor!”

“...Back to our regularly scheduled program? Welcome to What the Ghost!” Georgie giggles, and the intro plays through.

The eerie music fades, and Jon’s Narrator Voice introduces: ”Across the Street.”

As if the previous shenanigan never happened, Georgie and Jon sit quietly at their table.

“Jon’s grumpy about another one,” Georgie begins. “No ‘corroborating evidence.’ We’ve spoiled him with well-documented cases, guys.”

“Forgive me for wanting actual, real evidence of the supernatural before I dive right in and become a conspiracy theorist flinging red string everywhere.” Jon crosses his arms with a small huff.

“I swear, if you weren’t already graying I’d think you were five years old.” Georgie reaches over and flicks his forehead.

“Mmf. At least three of those gray hairs are from you.” He reaches over and flicks her back.

“Only three? I’m offended!”

“Can we get started, please?”

“Gladly!”

The camera cuts away, and Georgie’s skillful editing accompanies Jon’s ever-infamous Narrator Voice. (Georgie’s thinking of getting it trademarked.)

”In September of 2005, Amy Patel took a Criminology night course at Birckbeck University, to get away somewhat from her day job as a Compliance Analyst.

G: Ugh, I don’t blame her.

J: Sounds like hell frozen over, honestly.

G: Perfect for you, then!

J: As if I wouldn’t dissolve on the spot the second they don’t let me bring one of my books in.

G: I mean. Fair.

J: Mm.

G: I’d rather you not dissolve—though that would be a fascinating way to die.

J: Not sure if pulling apart my molecular structure is in my best interest.

G: It could be.

J: Ominous. Nice.

”One of her fellow students, Graham, was apparently always quite ‘a bit off-putting,’ for a number of small reasons. But the most interesting thing about him at first was that he would constantly be scribbling in a notebook.”

G: That’s not terribly strange, though? They are in class.

J: Apparently it was constant—even when the lecturer wasn’t speaking, he would be writing.

G: That’s a little weird, I guess. I assume the twists are soon to come?

J: You’ll see.

”Ms. Patel reports seeing him fill an entire notebook in one sitting, but when she once asked him to borrow his notes, he said he didn’t take any.

G: Ah yes. The college experience of sitting next to Jonathan Sims.

J: What?

G: You remember that one Art History class we took together for no good reason?

J: Kind of? Yes?

G: You never once paid attention to the professor, and you always got full marks. Always. And you were always working on some other class’ work in there.

J: I already knew the material! Why should I have to pay attention?

G: Jon, when did you find the time to learn Art History on your own?

J: Uh... s-seventh grade, I think? Around there. Probably.

G: ...

J: What.

G: You’re ridiculous.

J: So you’ve said? I’m confused.

G: [Laughing] Never mind, never mind.

”About four months into the course, Amy Patel first encountered Graham outside of class. He was acting strange, when she greeted him—apparently jumping at shadows, breathing quickly, and intently scanning his surroundings. They made small talk, and they ended up living quite near each other and walked towards their respective flats together.

G: Oho, is this a meet-cute?

J: Goodness, no. No it is not.

G: Look who’s ominous now.

”While walking, Ms. Patel reports feeling a hand grab her shoulder and throw her into the road, despite Graham being in front of her, and the rest of the street deserted. Luckily, there were no cars, but she hit her head hard on the asphalt.

G: Is “falling into the street” a horror movie trope? It sure seems to happen in quite a few of these.

J: Pfft. I’m more curious about the invisible hand, honestly.

G: Oh, yes, of course. You know, I just disregarded the invisible disembodied hand shoving some poor woman into the road to make my own joke. Completely forgot about it, really.

J: Very funny.

”Graham called her an ambulance. The head injury wasn’t serious, but she had a concussion, and shouldn’t be alone for the next few hours.

G: Of course. One day we’re going to get one of these without some kind of cognitive impairment. One day.

J: Drunk, drugs, exhaustion, concussions—I hardly think it’s a coincidence.

G: Note to everyone: If you’re about to encounter the supernatural, make sure that you haven’t hit your head, aren’t drunk, on drugs, and have slept a full eight hours—or Jonathan Sims is coming for you personally.

”A bit out of it, and not wanting Graham to know where she lived, Ms. Patel agreed to recover at Graham’s flat—which was directly across the street from her own. She mentioned him having a window box, seeing the hooks, but when asked about it Graham denied its existence—and sure enough, the box was gone when she looked again.

J: The case of the disappearing window box. A truly fascinating tale.

G: You’re awful.

“His flat was completely average except for two features—many, many bookshelves completely filled with identical notebooks, and a strange, ornate table with a hypnotic pattern weaving towards the center, which was a small square hole. Graham apparently found it secondhand and spent a lot of time and money restoring it. At this point, Ms. Patel decided to leave, making her excuses and returning to her own flat.

G: More notebooks! A very significant amount of notebooks!

J: So very many notes. And perhaps books?

G: Books of notes!

J: Notes of books.

G: And a table! There’s... a lot of emphasis on that thing?

J: It was apparently hypnotic in every sense of the word.

G: You’re feeling verrrryyyyyy sleeeeppyyyyyy..... the table is caaaallliiinnnggggggggg.....

J: Goodness.

”A few days later, Ms. Patel realized that she could see directly into Graham’s flat from her own. Curious, she decided to watch.

G: Um.

J: I didn’t include it in the actual research, but she did acknowledge how creepy it seemed. She said she would’ve stopped much earlier if he didn’t... ah... you’ll see.

G: Hmmmm.

”He would apparently constantly reorder his journals, without any rhyme or reason to the organization, often without even opening them. He would scribble in random notebooks, even though they appeared to already be completely filled. Once, she even claims to have seen him take one of his notebooks and tear out the pages one at a time. And then, slowly and deliberately, eat them—without stopping or pausing—until he ate the entire notebook.

G: I’m sorry, WHAT?

J: [Soft laugh]

G: He just WHAT? HE ATE THE NOTEBOOK?

J: That’s what Amy Patel says, anyway.

G: WHY?

J: [Audible shrug]

G: This escalated extraordinarily quickly! He just seemed like your average weird guy! He goes from writing a lot of notes and having an odd table to EATING HIS NOTEBOOKS?

”He remained constantly on edge, jumping at the smallest of sounds. He appeared to have no hobbies outside of note-taking and staring at his table.

G: Oh! Oh! Maybe that’s why he was eating his notebooks!

J: What?

G: The table hypnotized him into doing it!

J: Somehow I doubt that the table is cognizant enough to influence him that specifically.

G: How would you know? You’re not a table.

J: I-

”She never followed him outside of his flat, however, so was not aware of any other strange activities he might have partaken in.

G: Doesn’t do much to assuage the general creepiness of watching him all the time, but like—I get it. He ate his notebook.

J: Allegedly.

G: Shut up.

”One night, being unable to sleep, Ms. Patel decided to glance at what Graham was up to—as his light was on. According to her, there was something indescribably ‘off.’ Then, she noticed what she first assumed was a water pipe running running down the side of the building, attached to Graham’s open window. Except there had never been a pipe there before. As she watched, it started to bend, slowly—and she realized it was an arm. A long, thin arm.

G: Not to interrupt the good part, but WHAT.

J: This is certainly a strange one.

G: Ha! You can say that again! My word—‘oh yes that’s just my neighbor Graham, staring at his tables and eating his notebooks with long arms reaching across his building. You know how he is!’—how do you get to that point?!

J: As if I know?

”She watched as it bent the joint close to where the arm ended, and reported seeing another joint further down, moving and bending, likely an elbow. She saw it hook the end of the limb over and through the window, moving and shifting slowly, and wrong. She claimed to never see a hand, but it pulled itself through his window. She saw at least four limbs follow suit, too quickly to get a closer look. The moment it was inside, the light went out, and the window slammed shut behind it. She decided to phone the police, claiming to have seen a suspicious person climbing through a fourth floor window at Graham’s address.

G: Woah, what’s this? Someone actually phoned the police!

J: Incredible. She has found herself in possession of a singular neuron.

”The police arrived, and pressed the buzzer to enter the building. Someone walked towards the door to let them in. Ms. Patel is extremely insistent on this point—it was not Graham, and looked nothing like him, but it was wearing his clothes. The officers found no evidence of the thing that climbed near the window, or the ‘real Graham,’ despite searching the flat, and even comparing a passport photo. She claims that, after the police left, what she called ‘Not-Graham’ met her eyes and smiled at her from his window. She never saw Graham again.

G: Oh. That’s...

J: Weird?

G: Freaky as all hell.

J: There’s a bit more.

”She continued to see ‘Not-Graham’ all the time, however. He disposed of all of Graham’s notebooks, and only opened his curtains to stare intently at Ms. Patel’s flat, which he did every night. No one seemed to remember the old Graham, and all pictures online were of the new one. Eventually, it was too much and she felt she needed to move. The, quote, ‘last straw’ for her was when ‘Not-Graham’ left his building at the same time as her, and greeted her by name. As she tried to leave, he stared at her, smiled, and said: ‘Isn’t it funny, Amy, how you can live so near and never notice. I’ll need to return the visit someday.’ She moved out a week later, and never saw him again.”

The camera returns to the two sitting at their studio’s table—Jon having acquired several papers, and is rifling through them. Georgie is looking from him to the camera and back again, an incredulous expression on her face.

“You’re just? You’re just going to what, dismiss that out of hand? Like it’s not personally picking apart one of humanity’s very specific unconscious terrors?”

“Well, long-term head trauma complications are very possible.” He shrugs.

“Jon.” Georgie gives him a flat look.

“Well it’s not like we’ve got a copy of her medical records lying around.” Jon passes a few papers over to Georgie’s side of the table.

“Graham Folger definitely existed, at least, and it matches up with all the smaller details of Ms. Patel’s story. All photographs you or I could dig up matched,” he holds up air-quotes, “‘Not-Graham’ instead of the original Graham she described—except for a few polaroids from when he was a teenager that she took pictures of and kept up online, of a dark-haired boy with Graham Folger’s parents that looks nothing like ‘Not-Graham’ at all. She’s provided no other evidence or support for her story, though.”

“Check this out,” Georgie breathes. A side-by-side comparison of the teenaged Graham in the Polaroid photo next to a picture of Not-Graham is edited into the video.

“Even I have to admit it’s a little strange,” Jon mutters with a pained expression. “But plastic surgery and hair dye do exist, as does head trauma—“

Even as he speaks, Georgie is shaking her head in exasperation. Jon sighs.

“My main issue, I suppose,” he begins again, “is that Amy Patel is the only one who noticed the change, if there was one. They were barely acquaintances. Many people who knew Graham Folger better insisted that the ‘Not-Graham’ was the original, including his own parents. Why her?” He crosses his arms, face screwed up in thoughtful concentration.

“...Are you sure that’s not the point?” Georgie, uncharacteristically serious, lets her gaze drop.

“I—uh... huh.”

They’re both quiet for a moment.

“If you get replaced by a many-limbed entity that erases the memory of the original you entirely, I promise I’ll notice and sic the Admiral on the fake you.” Georgie spins in her chair to face Jon, grinning.

“I pity the entity that has to face the wrath of both you and the Admiral.” Jon shakes his head in mock sympathy.

“Aw, not going to say it back?” Georgie holds her arm back, prepared to flick Jon’s forehead at any opportunity.

“Listen. No one except you will be able to stand me. If you get replaced, the fake you is going to be running for its life the second I come up to it with my next research project.”

“HA!”

“I’ll still sic the Admiral on it, though.”

“Good!”

They both laugh, and Georgie flicks Jon’s forehead anyway. He kicks her desk chair, sending her rolling out of frame. He turns back to the camera, trying to smother a smile.

“And that’s all for today, viewers. Remember to like, comment, and subscribe to keep this channel properly undead. Donate to our Patreon for bloopers, the Admiral, and more. Oh, and don’t forget to follow our new Instagram page.”

From the background, Georgie yells ”BETRAYAL!” Jon winces, and the camera clicks off, transitioning to the outro.

—————

The most recent post on the “What the Ghost?!” Instagram page features a selfie of Georgie, front and center on a sofa, grinning and posing with a peace sign. On either side of her, Jon and a woman with short, dark hair dyed at the ends (tagged in the photo as @ghosthuntuk), argue vehemently—practically leaning over Georgie, gesturing broadly. All three are wearing pajamas. The caption reads “movie night!”

Chapter Text

“Greetings, viewers! I am, as you should definitely know, Georgie Barker—“

“—and I’m Jonathan Sims—”

“Welcome back to What the Ghost! And boy do we have a special episode for you guys!” Georgie slaps the table, hard enough to make Jon startle, and then glare at her. She pointedly ignores it.

“This story, Jon actually believes.“ As though this were the most dramatic statement in the world, Georgie gasps, and the camera cuts away to the intro.

”Page Turner.”

G: Now, now, let’s get that clear again. You believe this one!

J: I—well—yeah, I mean—how could I not, it’s a—well! I—

G: I think this is going to shock our audience forever! What’s going to happen to our dynamic, Jon? You’ve got the skeptic schtick and I’m the cooler, more awesome believer in the supernatural!

J: Our—it’s—it’s not a—Georgie it’s not a schtick—

G: [Stage whispering] I think we broke him!

J: I beg of you. Can we—can we please get on with this.

G: [Audible wink]

”West End theatre technician Dominic Swain, on November 10th, 2012, was at Notting Hill Gate, waiting for a production he was seeing to start. He knew about an Oxfam charity shop nearby, and looked through their books as a way to ‘kill time.’ He found the book on the Science Fiction and Fantasy shelf, for much cheaper than it appeared to be worth. He describes it as being bound in real leather, possibly hand-bound. There was no title, but the words ‘Ex Altiora’ were embossed on the spine—meaning ‘From the Heights.’

G: Ooooo, a spooky book!

J: It’s not spooky!

G: You make it too easy, Jon.

”The book had no author and seemed to be written entirely in Latin, so Mr. Swain was unable to read it—but the bookplate on the front read ‘From the library of Jurgen Leitner.’

J: [Incoherent grumbling]

G: Oh?

J: It’s... ah... I don’t like that name. Not one bit.

G: Can’t say it’s familiar, but...

J: We’ll get there.

”The only content of the book he could recognize were several black and white illustrations, likely woodcuts, of mountains, cliffs, and the night sky. They had a strange, falling quality.

G: My childhood dream. To fall into a book adventure, I mean. Not to accidentally enter a horror movie.

J: I mean. I won’t deny feeling the same.

G: Ten-year-old me read the Chronicles of Narnia and just spent the entire time yearning.

J: I only read the first book, but I will admit to checking my closets with extra care afterwards.

G: I want to meet a Jesus lion! I want to live out my lifetime as the queen of a fantasy world, and return back home at the end of my life just as I was when it all began! I want a sword!

J: [Distant laughter]

”Swain bought the book, and watched the production he’d been waiting for. The only oddity he noticed was the occasional faint smell of ozone, which he assumed was a problem with the lights. Upon returning home after his own show, he examined the woodcuts closer. They continued to trigger a vertigo-like sensation.

G: That’s oddly specific.

J: I know.

G: You’d think it’d be more sinister than vertigo?

J: It might’ve been more frightening if Mr. Swain could read Latin.

G: Maybe.

”Mr. Swain’s own research found nothing of note, except for a single other mention of a Leitner book, called ‘Key of Solomon’ which had already been bought at an auction, with no other information provided.

G: Now that’s a freaky book name! That’s a book that’s going to summon a demon.

J: Pfft.

G: Much more ominous than ‘Ex Altiora’ slash ‘From the Heights,’ both of which sound like rollercoaster names.

J: Keep your hands, arms, feet, legs, third legs, antennae, and any other appendages inside the car at all times.

G: Please exit the ride and let an attendant know if you begin to feel excessive vertigo—not like regular vertigo, but really weird vertigo. Specifically really very weird vertigo.

J: Thank you, and enjoy the ride. We hope you return.

”Swain contacted a few booksellers after figuring out an approximate value. Only one recognized the name Leitner, describing him as ‘some rich Scandinavian recluse paying absurd amounts of money for whatever books took his fancy.’

G: I’m assuming there’s a bit more to that description?

J: Honestly, I have no idea. All I know is that whenever his name shows up, it’s very bad news.

G: Hm.

”Leitner apparently had extensive dealings with Pinhole Books, owned by a Mary Keay in Morden. Mr. Swain reported increasing senses of vertigo and ozone as he continued with his job. Taking a walk afterwards, he apparently walked in a daze until he found himself near Pinhole Books. He approached the bookstore, rang the doorbell, and waited.

G: ‘Ah yes! I’ve magically found myself near the very bookstore known to deal with spooky books just like my spooky book! I’ll just ring the doorbell.’ It’s a miracle he didn’t get himself killed.

J: It’s entirely possible he would’ve ended up there no matter what, though.

G: Hush! I’m not supposed to be the frustratingly rational one. I don’t like this role reversal.

J: Tough.

G: There’s the Jon I know and love.

”Swain describes the woman at the door as old, painfully thin, with a completely shaven head and every square inch of skin tattooed with an unfamiliar closely-written script.

G: That doesn’t sound like a bookseller, that sounds like a cultist.

J: I can’t help but wonder how she goes to the grocery store.

G: Oh my gosh, yes. How are you supposed to react if you see her on the street? What if she’s your neighbor? ‘Yeah, that’s just good ol’ Mary! Lovely woman, bar the bloody ritual sacrifices of course.’

J: Ha!

”Suddenly realizing it was two o’clock in the morning,

G: [Surprised laughter] How do you just ‘suddenly realize’ it’s 2am?

J: I don’t know, but that’s what he said!

”...he apologized for the disturbance, asking if she was Mary Keay. She apparently seemed dismissive at first, asking if Swain had an appointment, but immediately changing her tune upon seeing ‘Ex Altiora’ and Leitner’s name. They entered the building, into a cramped set of rooms piled high with books wherever there was room. She mentioned something about it being a long time since she’d seen a Leitner, and ‘her Gerard,’ but Swain was apparently distracted and wasn’t entirely listening.

G: Frustrating.

J: I know.

”She asked Swain if he ‘wanted to see hers’ and he nodded, reporting that he just felt relieved he wasn’t smelling ozone.

G: Oh my word, he’s going to get ritually sacrificed.

J: Doesn’t seem like the brightest bulb in the box, honestly.

G: I—uh, don’t, don’t exactly scare easy—but I know I’d be out of there the second she said she’d take the book off my hands.

J: I’d drop the book on her doorstep and run.

G: There’s some Road Runner dust and sound effects. [Mimics the Looney Tunes Road Runner sound]

J: Whoops, I have to go! Sorry terrifying cultist lady, I’m late for dinner.

”She led him into a dingy study, piled—like the rest of the place—with books, muttering to herself. There was a desk, apparently covered in papers, along with fishing wire and a razor.

G: LEAVE! LEAVE! Why hasn’t he LEFT?

J: If this was a movie—

G: Ugh, I can already hear you tearing it to shreds.

J: Am I wrong, though?

G: Nope! This man is a certified horror movie side character doomed to die because he couldn’t read the room.

”His attention—and Mr. Swain placed a lot of emphasis on this in his account—was quite drawn to an almost photorealistic drawing of an eye, formed of dizzying intricate patterns. Below it were written three lines which Swain was not able to properly recall, but were sufficiently strange. Mary Keay brought tea and mentioned ‘her Gerard’ again, that he’d painted the eye. Swain was becoming increasingly confused at this point.

G: It almost sounds like she’s messing with his head? Or maybe the books are?

J: I wouldn’t put it past either of them.

G: I’m curious about this Gerard fellow as well. What do you think, partner or kid?

J: I already know the answer to that.

G: Mm, true. I’m going to go with kid. Not sure who in their right mind would date her.

J: Congratulations! You are correct, and you’ve won absolutely nothing. Someone had to... you know... like her for her to have the kid, though.

G: Oh, true. [Shudder]

”Finally, Mary Keay found the book she’d been searching for. There was no title, except for the same bookplate on ‘Ex Altiora’ marking it as a former part of Leitner’s library. She said it was written in Sanskrit, and laughed when Swain asked if she could read it. Mary Keay then took the book, held it in shadow for a few seconds, and then handed it to Mr. Swain. He opened the book, but it was still written in Sanskrit and apparently felt no different than before. But when he lifted it, something clattered to the floor—bones. Small animal bones in appearance, but bent and warped. Mary Keay took the book back, and as she did, more bones fell until there was a small pile at his feet.

G: A bone-book! What purpose could it possibly serve?

J: Well, I think it serves bones.

G: A novel discovery! Revolutionary!

J: [Soft laugh]

G: Oh my gosh.

J: Oh no.

G: Hey.

J: No.

G: Hey Jon.

J: Nope.

G: Hey Jon.

J: [Exhale] What.

G: Would you say... you have a bone to pick with Leitner books?

J: Georgina Barker, you are going to disappear under mysterious circumstances and I am most certainly not going to be at fault, but I will be taking the Admiral once you are declared dead.

G: You wouldn’t dare.

J: Try me.

G: ...

J: ....

[Both burst out laughing]

”Mr. Swain felt his mental faculties begin to worsen, reporting symptoms of extraordinary vertigo, a very strong smell of ozone, and general illness—especially after Mary Keay held ‘Ex Altiora’ under the shadows, and returned it to him, where he apparently saw many, very dizzying patterns. He made his excuses and left, taking a taxi home.

G: Finally!

J: He described feeling feeling very, very dizzy at that point, with a pounding headache and nausea. Makes you wonder what this Mary Keay put in that tea.

G: Oh my word. Even in a story you believe, we can’t escape the ‘they were on drugs’ speech.

J: Hey, it’s an actual concern!

G: Another helpful PSA from Jonathan Sims: Don’t drink tea.

J: As if either of us could survive without it.

”He included this supplemental to the story. One of the patterns he noticed in ‘Ex Altiora’ was called the Lichtenberg figure. He recognized it after watching a childhood friend, named Michael Crew, be struck by lightning.

G: Now that’s suspiciously specific.

J: I almost didn’t include that part, but Mr. Swain was very insistent upon the observation, at least in the versions of his story I was able to find.

”Shortly after returning home, Swain received a visitor. He had a rather ragged appearance, with artificially-dyed black hair and wearing a long, dark leather coat. Swain asked if he was Gerard Keay, and the man said that he was, asking to see the book. Gerard Keay proceeded to buy the book from Swain, and left to get the money.

G: Why’d Swain point out his hair, though? Seems a bit rude.

J: As an identifying feature, I guess?

G: I mean if I saw that guy at my door, the last thing on my mind would be how good his dye job was.

J: I suppose. Unless it was really bad.

G: Fair. I’d just be really offended if I got arrested and found out one of my distinct identifying features was my bad dye job, though.

J: When I finally get you arrested, I’ll make sure that’s not the case.

G: Thank you.

”Swain did some of his own research regarding the Keays. The first thing to appear was an article from 2008, four years before this account took place, about Mary Keay’s death.

G: WAIT.

J: Yep.

G: So she was a ghost cultist bookseller?!

J: Well, we don’t know that.

G: Oh, yada yada, ‘probably faked her death,’ blah blah whatever, ‘I’m Jon Sims and I have to doubt everything ever—‘

J: Well! I mean—What sounds more likely with this woman, though? That she died and became a ghost bookseller, or she faked her death to keep dealing in increasingly suspicious supernatural books without worrying about taxes?

G: Are you saying Mary Keay faked her death to commit tax fraud?

J: Maybe!

”The cause of death was found to be a painkiller overdose, but judged as a murder due to ‘extensive post-mortem mutilation of the body.’ I’m not going to get too graphic here, but it was not very nice, to say the least. The picture Swain found accompanying the article appeared to be Mary Keay, but with a full head of hair, and lacking her tattoos. Gerard had apparently been a suspect of the murder, but was mysteriously acquitted. While Swain was searching, Gerard returned, bringing the money for the book. He took the book, and immediately burned it.

J: And thank goodness for that.

G: Jonathan Sims, supporting the destruction of precious knowledge? My my, today is a day of discoveries.

J: Oh, shut up.

”As Swain’s head began to clear, he asked Gerard why—but he only said something about his mother not knowing what’s best, took the ashes, and left.”

The camera returns to find Georgie flicking through papers appraisingly, and Jon appearing solemnly thoughtful.

“You weren’t able to find anything else on the Keays?” Georgie asks.

“Nope. Nothing except that Mr. Swain’s description matches what photos I was able to dig up. I couldn’t find a way to access any police files on Mary Keay’s murder, unfortunately. They’re under pretty heavy lock and key.” Jon sighs, disappointed.

“Geez, there really is hardly anything for this one.” Georgie balls up one of the papers and tosses it out of frame. A small, grumpy mrow can be heard, and she chuckles.

Jon slides down farther in his chair, fussing with his glasses.

“Yes. But the experience Mr. Swain describes matches with everything I’ve been able to dig up about Leitners. Weird book, causes weird feelings, reading it is very, very bad. All that lovely stuff.”

“I’m hardly in any position to argue, if you’re sure about this one.” Georgie crumples the other paper, and launches it at Jon. He glares at her, and somehow manages to slide even further down in his chair.

Not really managing to suppress a smile, she turns back to the camera.

“Well, I think that’s all for today! Don’t forget to like, comment, and subscribe, it keeps What the Ghost mostly undead! But only mostly.”

Jon has slid down so far he is no longer in his chair at all, and is presumably under the table. He still continues the conclusion, if muffled.

“Donate to our Patreon for bloopers, the Admiral, and more.”

“Oh! And follow our Instagram, @what_the_ghost!” Georgie grins, and waves. “See you all later!”

The video clicks off to the outro.

—————

Sasha bookmarks the YouTube page on her laptop. Tim was right about the cited sources coming in handy, at least for the episodes that matched statements. And ones that didn’t were fun in their own right, anyway.

She was... concerned, after reading Dominic Swain’s statement, about the existence of unregistered Leitners. The video only solidified that concern—if even YouTubers were aware of Leitners, the Institute will need to keep an eye out.

There’s something about those two, though... but she can’t quite put her finger on it.

Well. It’s a problem for another day. Tim will personally murder her if she misses another ‘Coworker’s Night Out’ in favor of organizing, and she’s never considered herself a workaholic anyway. There’s just... so much, in the Archives.

“SASHA JAMES, I SWEAR TO—“

“I’M COMING, I’M COMING!”

Chapter Text

“Salutations, ladies, gentlemen, cats. I’m Georgie Barker—“

“And I’m Jo—ow!”

Georgie appears to have kicked Jon’s leg under the table. He winces and sighs, looking rather put-out.

”And I’m Jonathan Sims.”

“And welcome back to eeEEEEE!!!” Georgie squeals as the Admiral jumps on the table. “Hello, baby boy! What’re you doing here?” She pulls him into her arms, and the Admiral puts up only a token struggle.

“Aw, did Georgie leave the studio door open again?” Jon reaches over and scratches under his chin, and the Admiral purrs contentedly with all the attention.

“I apparently did, and it was worth it, wasn’t it?” She releases the cat, who nuzzles against her arm before leaping off the table and out of frame.

“It’s always worth it for the Admiral.”

“Exactly. And without further ado, welcome back to What The Ghost!”

The intro plays through, and Jon’s Narrator Voice intones: ”Thrown Away.”

G: I’m really excited about this one.

J: You would be.

G: It’s a proper mystery! Like, full-on haunting, spooky-scary, paranormal activity.

J: From the perspective of the garbage man, of course.

G: Well we can hardly get the perspective of the protagonist, can we? They’re probably dead!

J: Actually, a lot of horror movie protagonist survive to the end, and it’s all the side characters that die. The creators want assurance for a sequel.

G: Hush. The characters were all murdered in typical gruesome horror movie fashion, and now we get to hear about it from the garbage man.

J: Alright, alright.

”In 2008, Kieran Woodward worked as a bin man. He claims the work was very average until he encountered a very strange and specific problem at 93 Lancaster Road. Apparently, strange items are a normal factor of his job, so Mr. Woodward was mostly unbothered by the bag of hundreds of doll’s heads.

G: Oho, things are getting good already!

J: How is that good in any capacity?

G: Well it’s certainly fascinating, isn’t it? Not only are they only throwing away the heads, but they had to have owned hundreds of dolls. Those kind of people are normally collectors, yeah?

J: True. Why wouldn’t you at least sell them? Some other doll collector would probably give a fortune for those.

G: And if they were afraid of being haunted—I think collectors pay more for haunted things.

J: And yeah, what are they going to do with the bodies?

G: ‘Here you go, little Timmy, your Christmas present—a one of a kind collector’s doll from 1876! Sorry about the missing head, hope that’s not too traumatizing.’

J: [Muffled laugh]

”He was able to see the heads through a tear in the black trash bag. They appeared to all be from various different dolls, and all were somewhat battered—but not with age, more as if they’d been, quote, ‘dragged over rough concrete.’

J: I’m more inclined to believe that some five-year-old had a temper tantrum with their toys, rather than anything explicitly paranormal in this case.

G: ‘Oh, that’s just little Annie, you know how she is, destroying and beheading her dolls. Such a sweet little girl.’

J: There are some strange children out there.

G: You’re ridiculous.

”The garbage crew—consisting at the time of Woodward, David Atayah, Matthew Wilkinson, and Alan Parfitt, the driver—laughed it off and continued their work day, but remembered the house vividly. Parfitt was especially fascinated. A few months later, there was another black bag at 93 Lancaster Road. After some debate, and much encouragement on Parfitt’s part, they decided to open it.

G: And then they died, the end.

J: It’s the, ah, what was that from the movie you showed me? Turned a man into a skeleton, the guy with the hat and the whip?

G: Oh! The Ark of the Covenant?

J: Yes! That.

G: You didn’t remember Indiana Jones?

J: Just couldn’t recall his name, that’s all.

G: My grandfather knows Indiana Jones, Jon.

J: ...Anyway, the trash bag is the Ark of the Covenant.

G: Oh, it burns, it burns! I shall slowly and dramatically be worn away to ashes before the very eyes of my fellow bin men!

J: I think there’s a reason you didn’t take drama in uni.

G: [Faux shocked gasp] I’m terribly offended! Shaken to my core! Completely and irrevocably hurt!

J: My point stands.

”Inside was paper. It appeared to be a single strip of thick, inch-wide writing paper, long enough to fill the the entire bag. It was signed on the edges at certain points. Written on it in Latin was apparently the Lord’s Prayer, over and over again.

G: Ugh, I was hoping for a pattern. Or—or a theme, at least. How do you go from doll’s heads to some kind of weird blasphemy?

J: Maybe there isn’t a pattern because there’s nothing terribly supernatural about it to begin with.

G: [Sigh]

J: Look, I just think that it’s entirely possible that this whole.. thing... is a practical joke. Not... likely, considering a few extenuating circumstances, but possible.

G: I can’t believe the internet hasn’t torn you to pieces yet.

J: So you’ve said. I think last time you mentioned something about my charm, or lack thereof, being the reason?

G: Curse our fanbase’s love for dorks.

J: That just curses both of us.

G: Rude.

J: But not wrong.

”Woodward noticed Parfitt’s rather morbid excitement once again, but overall he claims the group was somewhat disappointed with the discovery, especially after the doll’s heads. He states that it was the third bag that, quote, ‘really changed things.’ A fortnight after the second bag, another appeared. When Woodward went to lift it, it was full to bursting and heavier than the previous bag, shifting strangely. As he went to carry it back to his colleagues, he caught it on the low brick wall surrounding the front garden. It tore easily.

G: Oh no.

J: Wait for it.

”Out from the bag, poured teeth. Thousands of human teeth, in varying stages of decay.

G: [Choked sputtering]

J: Yep.

G: What the—why? Whyyyyyyyy would you—how would you—like, of all things? Teeth?

J: Bit random, isn’t it?

G: YEAH it’s a bit random, and it’s also just a little bit creepy!

J: I should hope you think it’s creepy.

G: [Ignoring him] Like, if I was a horror movie creature, a supreme incarnation of fear and terror, I would not pick bags of human teeth as my defining feature! It’s—it’s creepy, for sure, but not scary. This teeth creature is getting obliterated by movie critics.

J: I don’t know, I think it certainly served its purpose.

G: Which was?

J: Thoroughly scaring the hell out of those garbage men.

G: [Short laugh] But! Where. Did. It. GET. The teeth?

J: A mouth.

G: An incredible deduction. But is it a many-toothed horror, or did it kill a bunch of innocent victims and throw out their teeth?

J: There’s another garbage-tooth fun fact you’ll need know before you construct too many theories.

G: Oh boy!

J: But not yet.

”They phoned the police.

G: I’m always so relieved when these people actually phone the police. Proves there’s some hope left in the world.

”While one officer took their statements, another went up to the house itself, and knocked on the door. The old lady and her husband living there had no idea what was happening, and were apparently quite distraught by the whole situation.

G: And they didn’t find that suspicious?

J: Apparently not.

G: Well I find it suspicious.

”The police never contacted the group again, and no further garbage bags had been found. Woodward reportedly began to notice Alan Parfitt’s decline, however—coming to work late, exhausted and snappish.

G: Hm. Sounds familiar.

J: Give me some credit. At least I’m never late.

”He kept getting worse, especially when they approached 93 Lancaster Road. Eventually, Woodward confronted him, and Parfitt admitted to watching the house at night—that he had to know who was leaving those bags.

G: [Long sigh] Oh dear.

J: It... doesn’t get better.

”Parfitt was eventually fired after falling asleep at the wheel, and replaced by a Guy Wardman. Life went on until the eighth of August, when Mr. Woodward was apparently woken at two a.m. by a text from Parfitt, reading ‘FOUND HIM’ in all capital letters. Parfitt did not respond to any of Woodward’s questions, but Woodward claimed to ‘know he was gone’ and drove to 93 Lancaster Road to see for himself.

G: None of these guys have any kind of survival instinct, do they?

J: Fool.

”Upon arriving, there was no sign of Parfitt, or any other person or creature. There was, however, another bulging rubbish bag, tied off with a green bow.

G: Merry Christmas!

J: And a happy new bag of terror.

”Inside were packing peanuts, surrounding a fist-sized lump of copper or bronze, carved roughly in the shape of an anatomically-correct heart. The name ‘Alan Parfitt’ was meticulously carved on the side, and it was freezing cold to the touch. Mr. Woodward has neither heard nor seen anything of Parfitt since.

G: [Short sigh] This one is... definitely fascinating, but extraordinarily confusing.

J: Nothing about it connects. There’s no MO, no theme to the trash bags, no haunting description of Alan Parfitt’s disappearance. It’s a collection of scattered, excessively strange events, only connected by 93 Lancaster Road, which houses a elderly couple apparently completely unaware of what’s happening right on their doorstep.

G: There has to be something we’re missing.

”Woodward gave the lump of metal to a friend of his who works with a medical waste incinerator, and nothing else has occurred since.

G: Oh, that’s a good idea. I’ll remember that.

J: I vehemently hope you never find yourself in Mr. Woodward’s situation.

G: Yeah, but like, just in case.

The camera returns to the duo at their studio table. Both appear extremely confused, and extremely upset about being confused.

“I didn’t have too much trouble with verification, at least.” Jon sighs, and slides a small Manila folder over to Georgie’s side. “The statements match up, as do the details of Alan Parfitt’s dismissal and his prior behavior.”

“Oooooo, and you found police reports!” Georgie’s expression briefly brightens, before darkening into befuddlement again. “Ugh, this is unhelpful.”

“Parfitt was reported missing the 20th of August 2008, and was never found. The bag of teeth was confirmed to exist, at least.”

“Those teeth will be the bane of my existence, I swear.” Georgie drags a hand across her face. Jon awkwardly pats her shoulder in sympathy.

“It gets worse. Look at the medical report I dug up.”

“...What the—goodness gracious, Jon, what am I supposed to do with this?” Georgie, officially done, tosses the papers haphazardly in the air. They fall gently, scattered around the studio. One nearly falls on Jon’s face, and he slaps it away.

“The teeth,” he turns to the camera, “did not match any dental records, and were in varying stages of decay. But, all two thousand, seven hundred and eighty of them were the exact same tooth.”

“I have no solutions for this, Jonathan!” Georgie leans her elbows on the table and shoves her heads in her hands, staring desperately at the wood grain as though it will give her answers. “This is going to be the death of both me and our channel!”

“It could still have been a prank.”

“But the TEETH, Jon. The TEETH.”

“...3D printing?”

Georgie shoots up, and her glare is furious. Jon shrinks back, and shrugs.

“Do you have a better answer?”

Georgie slumps.

“No. No I do not. Unless...”

“I don’t like that look.”

“Time travel!” She looks absolutely delighted at the dismayed expression on Jon’s face.

“Listen, listen. Hear me out on this one.” She takes a deep breath. “Let’s dismiss the doll’s heads and the prayer paper as flukes, for now—some kind of failed ritual, or something. I’m thinking that 93 Lancaster Road exists in a temporally-displaced bubble—“

”Good Lord.”

“No!” Georgie slams her hands on the table, and Jon raises his arms in mock surrender. “Hear me out! It exists in a temporally-displaced bubble in a constant time loop. Whoever the teeth belong to is stuck in this time loop, and lacking any other way to send a message, is removing their tooth each loop and sending it out. That’s why the teeth were all the same tooth, and why they’re in varying stages of decay!” She holds her arms out in a ‘tada!’ motion.

Jon, having completely given up at this point, just sets his forehead on the table and does not respond.

“Well, that’s all for today’s episode of What The Ghost! Don’t forget to like, comment, and subscribe to keep our channel in a hellish limbo between life and death!” She pauses for Jon’s portion of the script, but he doesn’t move nor respond.

“Aaaaannddddd,” Georgie continues, “Donate to our Patreon for blooper compilations, the Admiral extras, and a whole lot more! Follow our Instagram too, @what_the_ghost!”

Georgie gives Jon one more concerned glance, and shrugs. The camera clicks off, and the outro plays through.

—————

What the Ghost!’s current Instagram story is a video. There is a sticker proclaiming the time to be 3:24 am, and the video is very dark—only a few fuzzy shapes are visible. From behind the camera, Georgie opens what is presumably her bedroom door, revealing a small living area. Jon, sitting on the couch, is washed out by the white light of his laptop (the only source of light in the room) and furiously typing.

“Jon,” Georgie stage-whispers.

“Mm?” Jon responds, but doesn’t actually seem to notice.

“Jooonnnnn.”

No response.

“Jon!”

He startles, nearly dropping the laptop.

“What?” His glasses are now crooked, and he makes no move to fix them. Georgie’s whisper sounds fondly annoyed.

“Go to bed!”

“I will, I will, I’ve only got like two sentences left.”

“Suuuurreeeee.”

“I do!”

“Alright, alright.”

The video ends. The second installment in the Instagram story is a picture of Jon asleep on the couch, the Admiral stretched across his laptop keyboard. It’s posted with a sticker that just says ‘idiot,’ but another sticker alongside it is a small gif of a heart.

Chapter Text

“Guten tag, darlings! I’m Georgie Barker—“

“—and I’m going to die.”

Georgie’s laughter is knowing and far too excited. Jon drags a hand across his face.

“She’s been pestering me about this episode for weeks. I think it’s hardly worth a second glance—“

“When do you not?“

“—but Georgie insisted, so here I am. About to talk. About. A haunted house.” It doesn’t seem possible, but he manages to look even more exhausted by the end of his sentence. Georgie just looks thrilled.

“Hell yeah, a haunted house! What’s cooler than an actual haunted house?” She sets her chin in her hand, daring Jon to argue.

”Anything,” he replies scathingly, “is better than a haunted house.”

“Well then, see if Mellie and I take you along on our Disney trip, grumpy-pants. The Haunted Mansion will be too much for you.” Georgie smirks, and Jon bristles at the name, but it doesn’t seem to be anything new.

“You don’t have a Disney trip planned,” he rolls his eyes.

“Yet! And unless you fix your attitude, sir, you are not invited!”

Jon only mutters something incomprehensible and scowls. Georgie claps, cheering:

“Welcome back to What The Ghost!”

As the intro plays through and fades, Jon’s Narrator Voice introduces: ”Burned Out.”

G: [Whispering] Haunted house! Haunted house! Haunted house! Haunted ho—

”November of 2006, contractor Ivo Lensik accepted a job working at Hill Top Road, in Oxford. Mr. Lensik noticed nothing odd about the wiring job when he accepted it, deciding to work in the evenings. Construction on the house was fairly recent—it was almost fully-built, but still missing windows and other cosmetic additions.

G: A window is not a cosmetic addition! You rather need those.

J: Hush.

”Mr. Lensik’s description places special emphasis on a tree in the house’s garden, which he described as very large, very dead, and very creepy.

G: How much did it cost you to say ‘creepy’ with your own voice?

J: My sanity.

”His third night working at Hill Top, there was a knock at the front door. This was strange, because there were no locks on the doors yet, and any of the other builders would have just let themselves in. Mr. Lensik took a hammer just in case, and went to open the door.

G: Have we finally come across a man with brain cells?

J: No.

G: Awww.

J: Mr. Ivo Lensik does not make my job any easier, nor his story any more believable. You’ll see.

G: Oh boy!

”The man at the door was described—quite comprehensively, considering most witness descriptions—as young, white, in his mid-twenties, and clean-shaven with shaggy, chestnut-brown hair. His coat was a distinctly old cut. The man introduced himself as Raymond Fielding, and claimed to own the house. He appeared to have the deed to both the house and the land, so Lensik let him in.

G: Hm...

J: What.

G: I can’t decide if it’s creepier because this guy’s unassuming, or if it’s just unimpressive. Like on one hand, you’re not expecting this Raymond to be a vampire or a ghost or something. He’s got surprise on his side. On the other, he lacks any kind of flair. Booooring.

J: If I was about to be murdered, I don’t think I’d care.

G: I would care, though. PSA to all the murderers out there in the audience: Look cool when you kill me, dammit!

J: [Choked laughter]

”Raymond Fielding followed Lensik inside, unresponsive to any attempts at small talk, and went to stare out the back window. Mr. Lensik returned to his wiring—but soon noticed the smell of burning human hair. He looked over towards Fielding, but where he had been was only a smouldering patch of scorched floor.

G: GHOST!

J: [Sigh]

G: What the GHOST! THIS is what our show is for!

J: This is a more... classic story than we’ve gotten in a while. Haunted house, ghostly man, et cetera. There’s even a priest later.

G: NICE!

J: That does not make it any more likely than the others we’ve covered. In fact, I’d argue this is one of the least likely we’ve ever covered, for reasons you will discover.

G: [Sing-song] Party pooper!

J: So be it.

”Upon extinguishing and cleaning the scorched wood, Lensik discovered it to be completely undamaged and cool to the touch, with only a thin layer of soot on the top. Mr. Lensik then decided to divulge his family history. His father and his great uncle were both diagnosed with schizophrenia, and both eventually committed suicide as a result.

G: Oh. Oh that’s why—

J: He has a family history of schizophrenia! Schizophrenia! I did my research, the chances of contraction increase by ten percent if a parent has it! Lensik’s father was diagnosed at a much older age, which was Lensik’s main defense against the likelihood of his own diagnosis, but the average onset for men is actually 18-25. Oh! And it gets worse.

G: Been holding this one in for a while, have you?

J: Oh, you have no idea. I could keep going, but then we’d run out of time.

G: Should we count how many new grey hairs you’ve gotten?

J: Probably!

”In his brief panic, Lensik slipped on the wet patch of floor he had just cleaned, and hit his head badly enough to knock him unconscious for a few minutes and deeply cut his temple.

G: You have got to be kidding me.

J: How. How am I supposed to trust anything this man claims?

G: Well—

J: He’s concussed with a family history of schizophrenia!

G: That doesn’t mean he’s—completely invalidated, Jon.

J: I have disregarded ghost stories with much less counter-evidence than this one, and I will continue to do so! It just makes this account that much less possible.

G: [Sigh] I am going to launch the Admiral at your face, claws first.

J: Do it. I want to see him.

”He managed to call an ambulance, which took him to John Radcliffe Hospital. He was diagnosed with a severe concussion and kept overnight for observation, where he also asked to be checked for signs of developing schizophrenia. While he was there, a nurse overheard Mr. Lensik’s description of events, and recognized the name Raymond Fielding. She provided a short history of what happened to the first house on Hill Top Road.

J: This gets... really strange. The history that the nurse tells Lensik is supported by multiple local accounts. The entire area seems to agree with it.

G: But?

J: There is no physical evidence for it, whatsoever. Granted, it’s fifty-year-old history, but everything that should have left a paper trail just... hasn’t.

G: So either an entire town is lying, or...

J: Or there was some kind of coverup.

G: Supernatural or otherwise?

J: I’m leaning towards ‘otherwise,’ but you might have a different opinion on the matter.

G: I’ll wait and see!

”The house that had stood in the same place the new one was being constructed had been owned by Raymond Fielding in the 1960s.

G: GHOST!

J: Really?

G: YES!

”Most accounts of Fielding describe him amicably, as a devout churchgoer and ‘kind and gentle,’ if somewhat reclusive. He used the home as a halfway house for troubled teenagers, and despite the neighbors’ dislike of said teenagers, Fielding was never blamed.

G: Oh, that’s sweet! Especially for the sixties. And you don’t hear about haunted halfway houses too much.

J: Lots of haunted orphanages, though.

G: That’s because of the [shudder] small children.

J: You’re going to love what comes next, then.

”No one knows when exactly Agnes appeared. She was much younger than the teenagers, no older than eleven, and at first was only unsettling.

G: Oh no. A small child.

J: The horror.

”After her arrival, the house on Hill Top Road began to change. Gradually, the teenagers stopped causing trouble, and the inhabitants were seen less and less.

G: Is Agnes consuming them for power?!

J: I highly doubt that’s the case.

G: But—

J: No.

”Raymond Fielding was still there, seemingly unaffected by the strange events, explaining any disappearances as the inhabitants simply moving on to better places. Eventually, only Fielding and Agnes were left at the house, until Fielding vanished as well.

G: Now that’s spooky!

J: [Long-suffering sigh]

G: Oh? You want me to say it again? Spooky! It’s a spooky haunted house with a spooky little girl!

J: You are going to be the death of me.

G: Then you’ll haunt me as a spooky ghost!

J: [Another sigh] I’m going to be the worst ghost. I won’t let you sleep.

G: Meh. Coffee has saved more lives than mine, I’m sure it’ll do for that situation.

J: I will leave all the drawers and cabinets open. I’ll leave all the lights on constantly to up the electricity bill. I’ll let the Admiral into every room he’s not supposed to go into.

G: You wouldn’t dare!

J: He will scratch up every piece of furniture you own.

G: Ugh, and dead people can’t pay rent.

J: Nope.

”By that point, Agnes was a young adult, and still just as quiet. When questioned on what happened, she would only ever say that Fielding had ‘gone away’ and that the house was hers. A police investigation proved that the house had been legally signed over to her, with no obvious signs of foul play. Most inhabitants of Hill Top Road report anecdotal evidence of pets disappearing, until eventually they stopped keeping them.

G: How do you explain that to your kids? ‘Sorry Timmy, Rover’s gone forever and we think it’s the creepy lady at the creepy house but we don’t actually have any proof.’

J: You do have to wonder what use she would have for pets.

G: Isn’t that a pretty common trait in young psychopaths, though? Killing small animals?

J: Wouldn’t the pets have started disappearing earlier, then?

G: Oh, hm. Maybe it was a warning, to get people to stay away.

J: Could’ve also been a wild animal in the area.

G: Bull.

J: [Knowing that’s not what she meant] No, probably not a bull. Maybe a wild boar, though?

G: You’re insufferable.

J: Thank you.

”The situation came to a head in 1974, when five-year-old Henry White went missing, and no search could find a single trace.

G: Does she get a diploma for graduating to child vanishing from pet vanishing?

J: She’s got it framed in the house.

G: There are those ‘Congrats!’ balloons tied to her mailbox.

J: Confetti’s scattered all over the lawn, it’ll take years to find it all.

G: Oh, that brings back memories. I think there’s still confetti in my parents’ yard from my graduation party.

J: My grandmother would not have stood for that. I would have been outside picking up every piece of confetti for the rest of my life.

G: Some of my more idiotic friends popped balloons, and I did have to pick up those pieces. It was horrendous.

J: [Shudder]

”The townsfolk immediately suspected Agnes. When the house caught on fire, no one tried to help, or even call the fire brigade.

G: Um.

J: Rare to see a town that united, huh?

G: Honestly, I would’ve been more worried about the fire spreading?

J: Oh, you’re right. That would’ve been bad.

G: Imagine your house burning down because everyone really, really hated your neighbor.

J: You could hold it over them forever, though.

G: ‘You won’t buy from my daughter’s lemonade stand, Mildred? Well how about the time my house burned down because no one would call the fire brigade? Hm?’

”When the fire was finally put out, the only body they found was Raymond Fielding’s, missing his right hand.

G: ...Hm.

J: Oh, I don’t like that face. That’s your theory face.

G: No, no I think I’ll wait until your follow-up for this one.

J: Miracle of miracles.

”Mr. Lensik, despite his apprehension, returned to work after a few days—though he only worked in daylight and avoided being at the house alone.

G: [Sigh] Idiot.

J: The best precaution is to—well, you know—

G: Not go back.

J: Yeah.

G: What is it about encounters with the supernatural that completely override our self-preservation instincts as a species?

J: Sounds like someone’s thesis.

G: It’s a real question, though! I’d like a study done. Any of you lovely fellows in the audience with a degree in neurology or psychology? Want to do us all a favor?

J: Somehow, I think they’re busy.

G: Naaahhhh.

”Lensik describes that—despite his precautions—he would occasionally find himself alone, and smell burnt hair or see a little girl disappear around a corner.

G: This brings up an interesting point, actually.

J: Do tell.

G: This is a new house being built, yeah?

J: Yes.

G: Then... why is it still haunted? Our usual perceptions of a ‘haunted house’ are because a spirit is attached to the house itself. But the actual halfway house burned down.

J: Meaning, any supposed supernatural elements are tied to the land, instead of the actual building?

G: Exactly! I wonder if that’s how other modern buildings end up haunted? The spirits are attached to the location itself, so they haunt the new building as well after the old one was demolished or destroyed.

J: Interesting. It also begs the question of how an alleged paranormal entity might become tied to a plot of land—you’d think all of the emotional attachment would be the house and the objects in it?

G: ...We’re going to end up debating this all night, won’t we?

J: Definitely.

G: I’ll bring Melanie, we’ll make it a three-way debate.

J: Hmph. That’ll be... interesting.

G: Shut up, you both love it. The two of you are at your happiest neck-deep in research and rebuttals. And this time, I’ll join in with my half-baked theories and we’ll make a day of it! We can go out for ice cream after.

J: ...No comment.

”Towards the end of the job, Lensik accidentally found himself at the house after dark. He immediately noticed the temperature in the home slowly rising, eventually reaching an intolerable, burning heat. But there was a knock on the door—and the feeling vanished.

J: He’s not doing a very good job of convincing me that he’s not schizophrenic.

G: That’s what the ghosts want you to think.

”At the door was a Catholic priest, who introduced himself as Father Edwin Burroughs, and that he had been sent to exorcise the house by the nurse that had treated Lensik previously.

G: This is becoming practically cinematic!

J: You know—not once have I seen anyone in these accounts we’ve gone over throw holy water on a paranormal creature.

G: Or salt!

J: Or a crucifix.

G: Or silver.

J: Or anything that traditionally repels the supernatural.

G: I suppose you don’t usually have that stuff on hand, though.

J: No, but someone has to have had a cross necklace on during a supernatural encounter, right?

G: Or maybe not—if a cross repels the supernatural, wouldn’t they never encounter it?

J: Hm. Maybe so.

G: Another one for the debate list, then?

J: Seems like it.

”Lensik described his various encounters to the priest, who couldn’t actually perform an exorcism as demons were not involved, but could perform some blessings to help as best as he could. He asked Lensik to wait outside.

J: This is where things go a little sideways.

G: Oho?

”As he stood, his eyes fell upon the dead tree in the front garden. In that moment, Lensik describes feeling an ‘intense, maddening anger’ at the tree. He picked up a nearby crowbar and swung it at the trunk with all his strength. Something warm and wet sprayed from the tree. He turned on his torch to see that blood was running from the gash in the tree’s side. At the base of it were old, black scorch marks.

G: Uh—woah! That escalated remarkably quickly!

J: [Muttered] Doesn’t do much for dismissing the schizophrenia aspect...

G: It’s like that one Sleepy Hollow movie—with all the heads in the tree!

J: Eugh, that was disgusting.

G: Pretty good movie, though.

J: Meh.

G: You just hate horror movies.

J: We are not getting into this again.

”Lensik decided that the only thing he could do was destroy the tree. He wrapped a chain around the trunk and attached it to his car. He pulled it, bloodless, to the ground. Where the tree once was, a small hole in the ground revealed a small wooden box. He describes it as about six inches square, carved with intricate interweaving patterns that were very difficult to look away from, almost hypnotic.

G: HOLY—THAT’S FROM THE TABLE! THAT’S THE MISSING CENTER OF THE HYPNOTIZING TABLE!

J: It’s absolutely from the table!

G: What on EARTH does a many-limbed creature of uncanny replacement have to do with a haunted house and a bleeding tree, though?

J: I have no idea! But it’s fascinating.

G: I did not expect any of our videos to connect like that. Especially not the hypno-table—but now I’m absolutely invested in finding out more about the hypno-table. Does he open the box?

J: Of course he opens the box.

”He opened the box, to find a single, fresh green apple sitting inside. He picked it up, taking it out of the box. As his hands touched it, the skin of the apple began to brown and shrivel, and then split. Hundreds of spiders erupted and spilled out from the rotting apple.

G: I-

J: No.

G: I thi-

J: Nope.

G: Well—

J: Nope, no, nope, nope, and also no, and did I mention no?

G: I think tha-

J: NO.

G: ...Is it because of the spiders?

J: Yes.

G: No spiders, then?

J: No spiders.

”Lensik dropped the apple in shock before the spiders could touch him. When it hit the ground, it burst in a cloud of dust. Once all the spiders were gone, Lensik smashed the box with a crowbar and threw the remains into a skip.

G: Aha! He has shown common sense!

J: It does mean we’ll never see the table whole, though.

G: ...Probably for the best?

J: Most likely, yes.

”Burroughs returned and gave Lensik his business card, to call him if there were any further problems. Lensik did not encounter any other paranormal sightings at the house in later days, and after finishing the job, has not returned.”

The camera returns to Jon and Georgie in their studio. Georgie appears distinctly excited, and Jon is shuffling through a disorganized scatter of assorted papers.

“So, this is where things get weird,” he begins. “You remember the history of the house, and the possible coverup?”

“I sure do!”

Jon slides a few scans of official-looking documents to Georgie’s side of the table.

“The earliest records I could find list it as being bought by Walter Fielding in 1891. It was inherited by his son Alfred Fielding in 1923, and then by his grandson, Raymond Fielding, in 1957.”

“That seems to track,” Georgie frowns.

“But,” Jon raises his pointer finger, “there is no evidence of it being used as a halfway house. Any of the proper paperwork needed for that kind of operation just does not exist for the house on Hill stop Road, yet the residents all corroborate the story.”

“Oh, that’s very strange.”

“There is,” he hands another scanned document over, “an obituary for Raymond Fielding, claiming his death as a house fire, and commending him for his work with troubled youths, but nothing else. I couldn’t find any proof that Agnes ever existed at all.”

“...Huh.”

“Now, are you ready for this bit?” Jon looks almost excited, lowering his glasses down his nose dramatically.

“I wasn’t before, but I sure am now!” Georgie spins her chair to face him.

“I managed to dig up an old newspaper report of one Agnes Montague, who was found dead in her Sheffield flat on the evening of November 23rd 2006, the same day Mr. Lensik claims to have uprooted the tree. She had hanged herself. Her age is given at 26, which casts some doubt on any connection. However—“

Georgie rubs her hands together in a rather overdramatic expression of eagerness.

“—tied to her waist by a chain was a severed human right hand. The owner was never identified—“

Georgie sucks in a breath, and mutters “Raymond!”

“—but the coroner reported that according to tissue decay, the owner of the hand had died at the same time as Agnes.” Jon’s final few papers are slammed into the table and slid over to Georgie with a sense of finality.

“Now that’s weird!” She eagerly takes the documents and begins scanning them for herself.

“Understatement of the week,” Jon mutters. Without looking up, Georgie reaches over and flicks his forehead. Jon retaliates just as quickly, but Georgie is unaffected.

“There was nothing else connecting Agnes Montague to Hill Top Road, but the hand thing was a little hard to ignore,” Jon continues, scowling only slightly.

“This is by far one of the wildest accounts we’ve ever covered,” Georgie announces. She slams her papers onto the table, and spins in her desk chair thoughtfully. “I still want to know the hypno-table connection.”

“I genuinely cannot think of any reason as to why those two would be related in any capacity,” Jon frowns, “except for the head trauma involved, of course.”

Georgie stops spinning.

“Head trauma shmead trauma. Maybe there’s some kind of... supernatural collusion, centered around the table?”

“The paranormal, verifiable or otherwise, has always struck me as being fairly solitary,” Jon counters, but he looks thoughtful.

“You’ve got a point,” she concedes, “but we’ve also got a rather irrefutable connection here.”

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Jon groans.

“Not one bit. I think we’re stumped on this one, dear audience! If you have any better ideas, let us know. Remember to like, comment, and subscribe to keep our channel suspiciously alive for reasons beyond human comprehension!” Georgie starts spinning again, which Jon distinctly and purposefully ignores.

“Donate to our Patreon for bloopers, the Admiral extras, and more.”

“Oh! And! Follow our insta @what_the_ghost!” Georgie waves, “See you all next time!”

The camera clicks off.

—————

The most recent post by @what_the_ghost is Georgie grinning brightly in an ice cream booth, flanked on either side by a disgruntled Jon and an even more disgruntled Melanie King (tagged as @ghosthuntuk). They’re glaring at each other without any real heat behind it. Melanie is even flashing the camera a peace sign.

Martin smiles a bit at the scene, and closes Instagram. He’s not sure if Sasha noticed the table connection—she probably did—but he should bring it to her attention anyway.

Tim’s got access to a few more records than Martin does—due to, ah, untoward circumstances—so he hands the statement file over to Tim’s desk.

“Think you could dig up anything on this?”

“Martin, Martin! Taking advantage of of my embezzlement and irresistible charm?” Tim chides, flipping his short hair, a teasing grin taking up most of his face.

“Yes. And?” Martin raises a brow.

“You wound me, Martin.”

“I have the distinctest feeling that you’ll survive.” Sasha’s tone is dry but her smile is warm as she emerges from her office, precariously carrying a stack of statements.

“She lives!” Tim caws. “Have you come to see the light of day once again?”

“We’re in the basement, Tim,” Martin helpfully reminds him.

“Fine. The fluorescents and-slash-or the light of our desk lamps, then. It doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

“Well,” Sasha exhales, “if you’re bored enough to be thinking about dramatic vocabulary—“ she sets the stack of statements down on Tim’s desk with a huff, “—think you could do some follow-up with these?”

Tim looks absolutely terrified (as he should) but only nods.

“Sure thing, boss.”

“Wonderful! And now the vampire returns to her coffin, to await lunch break.” Sasha laughs, and waves to Martin as she steps back into the Head Archivist’s office.

Martin chuckles and takes half of the statements off of Tim’s desk.

“You’re a lifesaver, Martin.”

“I know,” he says, but he blushes anyway.

“I owe you my life.”

“You do.”

Martin gets up from his chair, stretching out his stiff legs.

“I’m going to make tea and grab a snack or something, want any?”

“Martin, I can’t owe you any more than I already do!” Tim throws his hands up in defeat.

“I’ll make you some tea.”

Chapter Text

“Goooooooodddd day, fellows and fellas! I’m Georgie Barker—“

“And I’m going to stop you right there,” Jon gently slaps a hand over Georgie’s mouth (unnecessarily). Georgie, in turn, raises an eyebrow and shoves his arm away.

“What could you possibly be interrupting our all-important intro for, dear Jonathan?”

He slams his hands on the table.

“Information.”

“Do tell.”

Jon laces his fingers together and rests his elbows on the arms of his chair, in yet another supervillain-esque pose.

“It has come to my attention that there was a significant piece of information I... may have overlooked upon doing research on a previous video.” He manages to look vaguely sheepish. “The, ah, priest and exorcist, Father Burroughs?”

“Oh yeah, that guy. Forgot about him.” Georgie frowns—confused, yet interested.

“Well—so did I. I didn’t even bother with a cursory search, and, well—I most certainly should have.” He digs underneath his chair for a moment, opening up an old but well-loved laptop and quickly typing something in before handing it to Georgie. “Didn’t have time to print any fancy scans, I’m afraid—“

“Jon.”

“But, ah, thanks to those who pointed out the missing information, and—“

“Jon.”

“—apologies to anyone who was hoping for relevant information in that specific video—“

“Joooon.”

“—the sources for this are linked as they usually are, but separately from this week’s actual video, which we will get to in a moment—“

“Jon!”

“What?”

“Miiiiiiiind telling me what the fresh hell is up with the cannibalistic priest?”

“Right! Yes. I will do that.” He clears his throat, still looking rather sheepish until Georgie reaches over and ruffles his hair. He shoots her a sharp glare before turning back to the camera.

“Father Edwin Burroughs, only a day after visiting Hill Top Road, was found in the back room of an empty house—“ his voice takes on a quality similar to his narration, “—wearing a butcher’s apron. He was sitting in front of two students, Christopher Bilham and James Mann, both dead from blood loss caused by multiple lacerations to their legs and torso. Both of their faces had been removed with a sharp blade. The face of James Mann was found to have been... partially eaten by Father Burroughs.”

Georgie shudders and pales slightly in disgust. Jon winces sympathetically, his own expression tight.

“That certainly puts a damper on our haunted house, doesn’t it?”

“Quite.” Jon fiddles with his glasses. “Even stranger—there have been a few interviews with his colleagues at the church, and—none of them had anything but glowing praise for the man, except that he had been depressed after the apparent failure of a previous exorcism. All of them expressed disbelief that he would even be capable of such an... act. Father Burroughs pled guilty immediately, and made no effort to resist arrest or his two life sentences in prison.”

“That’s... that’s properly weird,” Georgie shakes her head. “And does absolutely nothing to help the utterly incomprehensible mystery around our favorite house on Hill Top Road.”

“If anything, it just makes it worse.” Jon sighs.

They’re both silent for a moment.

“Well!” Georgie claps her hands, “on that lovely lovely note—welcome back to What The Ghost!”

The intro runs its course, and fades, overlaid with Jon’s voice: The Mystery of Robert Montauk.

Breaking the previous pattern of their videos, the camera returns to the pair sitting in their studio.

“We are going to have a teensy bit of a different episode today!” Georgie begins. “After a multitude of requests, we’re going to be covering the sketchier aspects of a true crime mystery—rather than our usual paranormal goings-on.”

“The story of Robert Montauk remains... extremely popular, even today, some twenty years later. But many of you noticed there are certain aspects most serial killer enthusiasts seem to gloss over—and we have no intention of doing the same.” Jon reaches down under the table, and digs up a terribly large stack of books. The plastic covers and stickers mark them as library books.

“There was so much,” he breathes. “How did these authors write so much on this man?”

“And more importantly, how did they keep making money off of it?” Georgie’s brow is raised in disbelief at the stack, which is dangerously wobbly. “It’s just—just the same story over and over again, isn’t it?”

“I’ve asked myself the same question,” Jon’s voice is thoughtful—in direct contrast to Georgie’s own incredulity. “It’s certainly many different aspects of and opinions on the events, but they do get terribly repetitive after a while.”

“Goodness,” Georgie can only shake her head. “In any case, we’re submitting to the masses and going over it yet again—but we’re going to investigate the possibility of supernatural involvement in Montauk’s dark deeds.”

Jon rolls his eyes, but says nothing. Georgie sticks her tongue out at him, and the camera cuts away.

”We’ll start with a brief summary of Robert Montauk’s crimes. After the disappearance of his wife in 1990, through 1995, when he was arrested, Montauk killed around forty people in his backyard shed.

G: That is... hoo, that’s a lot of people.

J: With a few infamous notable exceptions—most serial killers only manage ten, eleven or so.

G: Yeesh.

”The police found forty preserved hearts ritually placed on shelves around the shed,

G: What does that mean? ‘Ritually placed?’

J: They were in patterns. No... discernible pattern, but enough that most of my sources made note of it.

G: Is this getting culty, then?

J: Oddly enough, both yes and no.

G: Oh?

J: You’ll see.

”and a body, before Montauk had time to dispose of it—a man named Christopher Lorne, the only identified victim.

G: Did... did they never find any bodies?

J: None. And they most certainly looked.

G: Alright, now things are getting spooky!

J: [Sigh of great suffering and disdain]

G: Well if you’re so determined to be ‘rational,’ maybe he just burned the bodies?

J: Unfortunately... he would have needed consistent access to a flame hot enough to actually do that—which he did not have. And even then, organic remains are still left behind. Maybe not enough to identify a body, but enough that forty people would be noticeable even over the course of five years.

G: Ah dangit, there goes rationality, what a tragedy. So anyway perhaps the bodies were consumed in whatever ritual he appears to have been attempting?

J: Well—that’s the thing. There was never any evidence of a ‘ritual’ of any kind being attempted or completed. Only the preserved hearts. Montauk himself never spoke about it, until he died in prison around thirteen years ago, and neither did his daughter.

G: She was just a kid during the whole thing anyway, right?

J: Yeah, about twelve when Montauk was arrested. I highly doubt she was ever involved.

G: And if it went on for five years... the neighbors never suspected anything either, clearly.

J: No convenient screams of terror.

G: Hm... let’s see what else you’ve got.

”Lorne’s only notable feature as a victim was that he was a member of the People’s Church of the Divine Host, a small cult that grew around the defrocked Pentecostal minister Maxwell Rayner in London, during the late eighties and early nineties.

J: I couldn’t find anything on the People’s Church of the Divine Host.

G: Really?

J: Obviously they’re somewhat secretive, being a cult and all—but usually there’s some kind of website? Advertisements to attract new members? There was nothing, except the man who started it and a few question forums that had people asking what on Earth it is.

G: Anything there?

J: The only other consistent information I could find is that it’s connected to a symbol of a hand with a closed eye.

G: Hang on, isn’t a hand with an open eye already a thing?

J: Is it?

G: Yeah, hold on—there, got it. See?

An image of the Hamsa symbol is edited onto the screen.

G: I’ve seen it on jewelry before... it’s like a protection something or other. You see it a lot in like, hippie indie shops. That sort of thing.

J: Begs the question—was Maxwell Rayner trying to be ironic with his symbol, or does it actually mean something in the context of the cult?

G: Bet he was just trying to be edgy.

J: Poor Maxwell Rayner, he never did grow out of his emo phase.

G: A tragedy, really. We had to remove him from the ministry because he would only wear black robes, and kept chanting in an ancient unknowable language—while wearing truly horrific bangs.

J: ‘Sorry, sir, but I simply cannot play Welcome to the Black Parade as one of today’s worship songs.’

G: ‘Eyeliner is highly discouraged under the minister’s dress code, sir.‘

J: He threw a tantrum in the middle of a service, insisting that it wasn’t ‘a phase’ to the congregation.

G: After his defrocking, many witness reports say they heard him shout ‘FINE! I’ll start my OWN religion then, see how YOU LIKE IT!’ before slamming the door behind him and stomping away.

”Seven years after Montauk’s arrest and imprisonment, he died in his cell in Wakefield Prison on November 1st, 2002. He was found stabbed forty-seven times. His cell was supposed to have been locked, and no culprit or weapon was ever found. Reports also say that the lightbulb in his cell was blown out, with no clear cause.”

G: Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.......

J: Strange, isn’t it?

G: HMMMMMMMMMMM......

J: A very comprehensive response, thank you.

G: HM.

J: I’m impressed by the sheer intelligence you display.

G: Thank you very much.

J: Of course.

The camera returns to the two sitting at their studio table.

“Anyway!” Georgie claps her hands, and grins. “Spooky ghost murder?”

Jon only glares.

“So that’s a yes, then?”

“Or he was murdered in his cell by a fellow inmate. That does tend to happen in prisons.” Jon raises an eyebrow. Georgie rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, but it’s probably really, really hard to like—hide a crime in prison? Especially one that bloody. That would make a mess.”

“Difficult yes, but not impossible”

”You’re impossible.” She pokes him hard in the arm, but he manages to still look smug.

“I know.”

“What about the lightbulb, then?” She leans back. Jon exhales slowly, a frown creeping its way onto his face.

“There were no electrical issues at Wakefield Prison at that time. It was either an unprecedented isolated incident... which is unfortunately, looking unlikely... or it was caused by whoever killed Montauk.” He looks very unhappy with this explanation.

“Or whatever.” Georgie points out.

“I don’t think a what would bother with stab wounds, though.”

“Fair,” she sighs.

“Funny you should say that, though—“ Jon suddenly adds, “—during the altercation that led to the police being called to the Montauk home, neighbors apparently reported loud growling, as if a wild animal was hunting nearby.”

“...You’ve only made this worse.” Georgie‘s head falls into her hands.

“There’s such a lack of connection between events—“

“—We’re clearly missing something important,” she finishes. “Something that Montauk knew—or at least thought he knew. There is some rationale here that we just... have no way of piecing together.” Both of them groan. Jon appears almost disgusted with the lack of answers, and Georgie’s expression is twisted into frustration.

”Alright...” Jon begins slowly, “let’s see what we have. We have a serial killer with upwards of forty victims, beginning after the disappearance of his wife. He preserved their hearts and placed them in unidentified ritual patterns. The only identified victim was part of a small, mysterious cult. On the night of his arrest, neighbors reported a wild animal growling in the vicinity. Montauk was killed in his supposedly-locked cell seven years after his imprisonment, stabbed forty-seven times, with the lightbulb blown out.”

“And that’s all.”

“That’s all.”

“What,” Georgie breathes, “the hhhheeelllllllllll?” She finally lets her head fall on the table in despair. Jon runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head, pained.

“Ohhhhhh... actually, one more thing.”

“Dear Lord in Heaven.”

“While searching for any kind of public police record of Montauk—he’d been an officer—I found a missing persons report for his daughter, Julia Montauk, from about five years ago. She still hasn’t been found.”

Georgie only groans.

“I suppose... that’s it? That’s ah, that’s all for today?” Jon shoots a questioning glance at Georgie, but she seems to be nonfunctioning for the moment.

“Uh... remember to, ah, like comment, and subscribe, or What The Ghost might die a mysterious yet tragic death. Um... follow the Instagram, I... don’t remember the username. You should be able to find it,” he winces, sheepish but vaguely unapologetic. “Donate to our Patreon for bloopers and more of the Admiral. Uh... see you... later?”

The camera cuts off.

—————

@What_The_Ghost’s newest instagram post proudly displays Georgie lying facedown on a couch, with the Admiral is sleeping contentedly on her back. The caption reads, ‘we finally broke her.’ All of the comments express extreme surprise and shock that Jon knows how to use social media.

Chapter Text

“Hello, hallo, and hullo lovely listeners! I’m Georgie Barker—“

She waits for Jon to say his piece, but he’s scowling at the floor and crossing his arms, staying silent.

“—and Jon is bitter!”

“You know how I thought the Hill Top Road video was the most unreliable we’ve ever done?” He grumbles.

“Yeeeessss?” Georgie bats her eyelashes—she already knows what he’s going to say.

“I was wrong. This is the one. This is the worst video we’ll ever make.” He somehow manages to scrunch even farther inward, essentially pouting. Georgie can’t quite keep a smile off of her face.

“Well there you have it, folks! Welcome back to What the Ghost!”

The intro plays, and then fades as Jon’s Narrator Voice filters through: ”Arachnophobia.”

—————

Tim clicks pause.

“Yeah, boss?”

“You working on anything important?” Sasha looks concerned, and that in turn concerns Tim. She’s had the archives handled pretty well, all things considered, and the organization and recordings should be well underway without a hitch.

“Nah, just looking up some stuff for the Vittery statement—I wanted to help Martin, ‘cause he’s out.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” she sighs a bit. Tim nearly deflates in relief.

“Yes, thank you! I almost thought I was the only one worried! It’s not like him to just... vanish, y’know? And especially not for this long.”

“He’s been sending me texts, saying he’s out sick, but they don’t... look right, if that makes any sense? It doesn’t match his usual style.” She hands him her phone, already opened to her messages with Martin. He scrolls through them, and it’s immediately obvious that something is off besides a sickness—mainly, the usage of proper grammar.

“No one texts like that unless they’re a psychopath or eighty-five,” Tim says decisively, handing Sasha back her phone. “Especially not when they’re sick.” He has officially progressed past ‘generally concerned’ into ‘seriously worried,’ and his expression matches Sasha’s.

“That’s what I thought.” She pockets the phone, and briefly returns to her office, returning with a coat.

“Uh... where ya going?”

“To check on Martin, obviously. Are you coming, or what?”

“No, no, yeah, I’m coming!”

—————

J: Let it be known. I. Hate. This.

G: We kno—

J: So much.

G: I appreciate your contribution, Jonathan.

J: Thank you for your time, Georgina.

”Carlos Vittery is a man with very severe arachnophobia. He traces it back to an encounter with a particular spider and its egg sac as a child, upon tripping into it, killing the spider and breaking the sac open, all of the half-formed baby spiders escaping to cover him.

G: You, ah, you good there, Jon?

J: No!!!

G: Mind... mind letting the audience know what’s going on, here? And also me? I would also like to know.

J: [Sharp exhale] Not only does this story have the gall to masquerade as a legitimate paranormal experience, it’s. About. Spiders.

G: And—

J: —Which means I have to not only research and describe a supposed supernatural encounter with absolutely no evidence supporting the paranormal aspects outside of the category of ‘personal anecdote,’ but I have to do it. On a story. About. Spiders!

G: Do you need a hug, Jon?

J: I don’t want a hug, I want evidence!

G: The evidence machine is broken, we only have hugs. Sorry.

J: You’re not sorry.

G: I’m really not.

—————

“I don’t get it,” Tim mutters as he and Sasha exit their cab. “There was nothing in the Vittery statement that could’ve... done anything to him, right?”

“The spider definitely seemed to be after Vittery personally, and once it... well, probably killed him it hasn’t bothered anyone since.” Sasha doesn’t even bother asking to be let into the building—the door’s been left unlocked, anyway. “But that doesn’t exclude some other threat.”

“Yeah... all things considered—oh, ew, what is that?” Tim scrambles backwards, running into the wall. There is a strange, silvery-white... worm-thing, wriggling pathetically on the floor. Sasha cringes, but squashes it under her boot. It makes an absolutely disgusting squelch, but it’s decidedly dead.

“A... really gross worm, I guess? I.. don’t like that, that’s familiar—there’s some kind of statement we had before that talks about worms, I know that for sure.” She scrapes her boot on the floor, trying to remove as of of the silvery slime as she can. They both shudder.

—————

”Not long after moving into a new flat, having been frightened off by spiders in his previous home, Mr. Vittery began to repeatedly encounter a single, large spider—bearing remarkable resemblance to the one from his childhood. After killing it, it would turn up again the next day, perfectly whole.

G: Oh my goodness. Oh my word. Are you telling me—are you telling me that this is entire account is about—it’s about—

J: Ghost. Spiders. Yes! It’s about ghost spiders. Are you happy now, Georgie? Is this what you wanted?

G: I am the happiest person alive, Jonathan Sims. Oh! Oh! Oh oh oh oh!

J: [Groan, accompanied by indecipherable muttering]

G: What the Ghost Spiders!

J: [Sounds of giving up completely]

”Even his cat, Major Tom, eventually left because of the spider’s continued presence.

G: Smart cat. The Admiral would never abandon us like that, though.

J: The Admiral outranks him, anyway.

G: True! He’s a lowly Major!

—————

There’s a woman at the door to Martin’s flat.

Well. If she can be called a woman anymore, that is.

Tim is tempted to classify her as a zombie, actually, but none of the statements that only record on tape have been about zombies, so maybe those aren’t... the realest. Nonetheless, she certainly doesn’t look alive. Her hair falls in front of her face in dark, ragged clumps, hiding what Tim is sure will be a horror for the ages. Her skin is a sickly, mottled grey, torn with awful gaping holes.

And from the holes crawl worms.

Listen. Tim does not have a weak stomach. Timothy Stoker has seen every kind of gory horror movie, walked through every kind of haunted house tour. Even now, a circus isn’t usually enough to make him queasy.

This gets real close, though.

Next to him, Sasha hisses “Prentiss!” and pulls them both behind a corner, out of sight of the... thing.

“That’s Jane Prentiss?” Tim hisses back.

“Yes—“ Sasha starts, but whatever she’s about to say is cut off, because Prentiss starts knocking.

There’s no response from Martin, but Prentiss keeps knocking anyway.

“Alright, alright,” Sasha mutters as she digs in her coat pockets. She pulls out her phone.

“What are you—oh,” Tim breathes, “nice.”

Sasha sends a quick text to Martin. Nothing special, just a brief check-in.

They can hear Martin’s phone ting! Prentiss pulls it out of a pocket in her rotting red dress, and types another stilted response.

Tim curses under his breath.

“What do we do, boss?”

“I... I thi—no, no. Uh. Um—“

A door (that most certainly was not there before) creaks open right beside them. Tim claps a hand over his mouth to keep from reflexively crying out in surprise, and alerting the wormy threat only a few feet away.

“Well now! Look at the two of you, being proactive. I’ve gotta say, you both ruined my own plan quite thoroughly!” Stepping out of the yellow door is something resembling a man. Tim... can’t quite describe him. He’s too difficult to perceive when Tim looks at him directly, but with his peripheral vision... curly blonde hair, wild and frizzy, very weird eyes. The distinctest feature, though—are his hands. They are large, warped, and tipped with horrifically sharp and equally long fingers, joints in all the wrong places.

The almost-man grins.

“But I think this will be much more entertaining.” Seemingly from nowhere, he pulls out a fire extinguisher from behind him and hands it to Sasha. She dips slightly under its weight, but keeps a steady hold. “Do try to make this fun!”

The almost-man turns to return through the definitely-nonexistent door.

“Wait—“ Sasha calls, suddenly. “What’s—what’s your name?” She asks like there’s a million other questions she actually wants to ask, wants to stop him from leaving without answers.

“Oh! How terribly rude of me, I forgot to mention it. I don’t suppose I technically have one at all, but! You can call me Michael.” He smiles again—Tim really wishes he would stop doing that.

And then he’s gone.

—————

”Vittery’s pleas for help went ultimately unanswered, and he gave no further information on his plight. Shortly after the events, he was found dead in his flat.

G: UM—

J: There was frustratingly little information on how exactly he died.

G: He’s just—he’s just dead? He was haunted by the ghost of a spider and then he just—just turned up dead?

J: Apparently!

—————

Prentiss isn’t dead.

She’s gone, but she isn’t dead.

...Turns out that having gaping holes where your tendons should be doesn’t actually decrease your running speed all that much. Tim could still totally beat her in like, a hundred meter dash, but she would do pretty well for herself.

Nevertheless, Sasha is able to chase her off with the CO2 fire extinguisher. It obliterates the worms, too, which is pretty great in Tim’s opinion.

...Although... now there are many many worm corpses littering the hallway. It is very gross.

Sasha doesn’t bother knocking, and kick’s Martin’s door open. (Tim is quite impressed.)

—————

The camera returns to Jon and Georgie in their studio.

“They’re keeping his autopsy report under wraps pretty severely,” Jon sighs. “There was one article on his death. He was apparently dead for a week before anyone found him, and he died of ‘choking.’ On what, it didn’t say.”

“Ugh. Why aren’t we criminals, Jon?” Georgie spins her desk chair a full circle once, and stops it facing him.

“I’m—I’m sorry, what?”

“If we were criminals, we could just—I dunno, break into the coroner’s office? Or the police records.” She holds her hands out in a ‘tada!’ motion. “Problem solved!”

Jon shakes his head.

“Ah, yes. Break into the police records. As a criminal. Trying to avoid the police. And then, post a video about it on YouTube. It’s foolproof, really.”

“Exactly! Glad you agree!” Georgie’s cheeky grin has Jon rolling his eyes and sighing.

—————

Martin’s okay, thank goodness—traumatized, yes, but really it’s about time he joined the traumatized party anyway.

They’re in the middle of stocking the archives with fire extinguishers when Sasha sees Tim’s laptop, still open to the What the Ghost video he was watching earlier.

“I don’t like that look,” Tim says. “That’s a scheming look.”

“Well—now that we might end up stalked by a creepy-living-hive-worm-woman, and maybe haunted by Mister Handman—“ Martin chokes at that last one, and Sasha flashes a quick grin, “—we might be able to use an outside perspective.”

“Elias won’t be happy...” Martin’s trepidation is clear on his face.

“And?” Tim shrugs.

“Fair point,” Martin sighs.

“They accept submissions sometimes, yeah?” Sasha gets up to find her own laptop.

“Sure do.”

“And you’re... you’re absolutely certain this is a good idea?” Martin’s already onboard, of course, but someone has to be the cautious one around the archives.

“It’ll be up to them, anyway. I’ll make sure they’re properly warned and all that,” Sasha sits on the edge of Tim’s desk, laptop found. “We’ve been using them as a resource for months now, anyway.”

“If you say so,” he sighs.

“Hell yeah!” Tim cheers, and holds up both hands for high fives. Sasha enthusiastically reciprocates, as does Martin—though more resigned.

—————

“Well, that’s all for today, folks! Don’t forget to like, comment, and subscribe to keep our channel horrifyingly transfixed on achieving immortality!”

“Donate to our Patreon for blooper compilations, the Admiral extras, and more.”

Georgie waves. When Jon doesn’t, she reaches over and grabs his wrist, flailing it around in a waving motion.

“See ya!”

Chapter Text

“Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee—“

Jon raises a brow at Georgie.

“—eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee—“

“Really now?”

“—eeeeeeeello,” she gasps for breath, “ladies and gentlemen! I’m—I’m Georgie Barker—“

”—and I’m Jonathan Sims—“

“And we’ve got a special episode for you! Welcome back to What the Ghost!”

Georgie, still out of breath, attempts to cheer. She does not succeed, and Jon awkwardly pats the top of her head in sympathy.

The intro runs its course, fading as Jon introduces: ”Squirm.”

G: Mind if i explain a bit first?

J: By all means.

G: This is another one of our requested episodes! The asker would like to remain anonymous, but the subject seemed particularly interesting, mostly because it was super specific—

J: And we’ve actually seen a lot about it before, but we never thought it was coherent enough to merit making an episode.

G: So we’ve decided to instead, focus on a compilation of all of these specific incidences, and maybe—just maybe—find something interesting. So now, [drumroll] for the moment you’ve all been waiting for:

J: Worms.

An audience applause track is edited into the video.

J: Specifically, odd silver worms.

G: Oh! And! If any of you see weird silver worms, let us know! We’re keeping a question thing open on our Instagram. Stupid responses will not be answered publicly, but we appreciate your attempts at humor anyway. Okay—now it’s worm time.

J: ...

G: It’s so hard to not to say the meme.

J: I was waiting for you to say it!

G: Should I?

J: I’m not going to stop you.

G: Alright alright.

J: ...

G: Oh worm?

Another audience applause track is edited into the video.

”The first reported account of these odd silver worms refers to repetitive sightings of a woman named Jane Prentiss. The worm aspect seems to begin after a fire destroyed her flat, and she was hospitalized. The staff treating her were discovered dead in her hospital room with the strange silver worms... burrowed into them. Prentiss, apparently, walked out of the hospital unhindered.

G: We’ve—we’ve gone right to horror movie, haven’t we? Goodness.

J: I went with the chronological approach, rather than the shock factor one. It paints a disturbing picture. Well—what I was able to find, anyway.

G: Oh? Do tell.

J: Honestly, I... probably broke a few laws even getting that much? Someone did not want that information getting out. The deaths are stubbornly listed as ‘workplace accidents’ in most sources, and Prentiss isn’t registered as ever having been a patient.

G: Getting into state secrets, are we?

J: If the police are watching—I’ve done no such research, whatever do you mean?

G: Bit concerning that they’d go through all the effort of covering it up instead of warning people about murder worms. Anything on the hospital itself?

J: It got fumigated, I think, but nothing else.

G: Suspicious.

J: Very.

”There have been numerous sightings of Jane Prentiss since, though fewer actual encounters. She is always wearing a red dress, torn, with dark, scraggly hair. Her skin is in various stages of decay, depending on the timing of the sighting, but she is always accompanied and... infested by... extremely dangerous silver worms.

G: D’you think they have teeth?

J: I’m sorry—what.

G: The worms. Would they have teeth?

J: I... [exhale] I’m not sure? Certain leech species have teeth—and those that do have a lot—but they more commonly just use suckers, or a proboscis.

G: Like—like butterflies? Like how butterflies have proboscises?

J: Yes, but much more murderous.

G: Eugh.

J: Also, I really don’t want to think about worms having teeth.

G: They chomp!

J: They’d better not.

”One of the only clearly reported encounters with Prentiss is, if indirect, at least insightful. A man named Timothy Hodge, after spending the night at a club, agreed to, ah, spend the night with a woman he met there, introducing herself only as Harriet.

G: And let me guess. Another tally for the drunk column?

J: Ding ding ding.

G: That was the most depressed-sounding bell I’ve ever heard.

J: That’s because the bell is categorically frustrated with the continued inebriation of those on the receiving side of the paranormal.

G: The bell is going to have to suck it up.

J: [Sigh] That it is.

”Mr. Hodge reports Harriet as acting extremely nervous and jumpy, near panic until they made it to his flat. She eventually told him it was because she had been ‘mugged’ two nights ago.

G: I could hear the quotations around the word ‘mugged.’

J: Heh. You shall see.

G: Actually, I shall hear.

J: Or will you?

G: Or will I?

J: Hm.

G: Hm!

J: Hmm?

G: Hmmmmm.

J: ...

G: ...Moving on!

Both: [Muffled laughter]

”Walking home around midnight, Harriet saw a woman—matching Prentiss’ description—lying facedown on the pavement. At first, she did not respond to Harriet’s concerned calls—until she suddenly leapt to her feet and attacked her. Harriet felt a pain in her stomach as though she’d been stabbed, and fell unconscious.

G: Aw, Jane Prentiss is about jump scares?

J: What a cheap attempt at horror.

G: Boooooo! Try something with substance next time!

”When she awoke, she found herself entirely uninjured, and went home. Since then, she claimed to—

G: Wait. Wait, she just went home?

J: Yes, indeed. She didn’t live alone, to be fair?

G: Still! You just got assaulted, call the police!

J: She went to the police later. It,,, didn’t go well.

G: Were—

J: Nothing to do with the officers, actually.

G: ...Interesting.

J: Quite. I’ll explain.

”—see the woman matching Prentiss’ description everywhere she went. Hodge mentions she wasn’t feeling well, either, and seems to emphasize ‘itching.’

G: Oh, ew. I don’t like where that’s heading. I’ve seen enough horror movies and talked about enough horror stories to have a pretty good idea of where that’s heading. Ugh.

J: It’s... disquieting.

G: To say the least.

”She claims to have experienced a powerful, overwhelming nausea upon trying to go to the police, and after visiting a hospital, nothing was immediately wrong, at least medically.

J: And yet...

G: Uh-oh.

”After her and Hodge’s... night together, Harriet began to convulse, clearly in pain. Hodge ran to the bathroom for medical supplies, and when he returned...

G: Oh gosh oh geez oh no.

J: [Muffled, choked laughter]

”...I won’t get into graphic detail, but... Harriet was very dead, and there were many worms.

G: Ugh, poor woman. Imagine trying to be a Good Samaritan and going to help some poor lady on the street, and bam! She infects you with worms. Did they explode out of her Alien-style?

J: Yes.

G: That’s awful!

J: Yeah—of all the horror tropes... bugs are the nastiest.

G: I can respect ghosts, and like, horrible twisted creatures of darkness and whatnot. Bugs and worms and all that—that’s just gross!

J: If it were a horror movie—

G: We’d both be judging the ever-loving crap out of it. First jump scares, now disgusting worm gore.

J: Eugh.

”Hodge’s account ends there—at least the version he posted.

J: I did a bit of digging, and I found a local news site that reported his flat as burning down—the same night as Hodge’s encounter.

G: Do... do you think he did it?

J: It’s the only possibility that makes sense, I think.

G: Too coincidental to ignore.

J: Exactly. Oh... and...

G: Oh dear.

J: There is currently an active missing persons report for Timothy Hodge. After his flat burned down, he just... vanished.

G: I—oh no.

J: I’ll put a link to the appeal in the video description, in case anyone’s seen him.

G: ...Alright. Hm. Wait. What if he’s just, like, on the run after burning down his flat and we just sent a big mob of people looking for him?

J: Unlikely, but that would be hilarious.

G: ‘Dang stupid YouTubers. I’m in hiding! Go away!’

J: Pfft.

”The only other confirmed encounter comes from multiple reported sightings of silver worms near a London apartment building in Archway, on Boothby Road.”

G: Hm. A little too close for comfort.

J: The worms are encroaching.

G: We must defend the city!

J: Step on as many as you find.

G: Yes! Also! Extinguish them.

J: Isn’t that just a synonym for killing them? Which stepping on them would accomplish?

G: Yes but also use a fire extinguisher. CO2 apparently gets em real good.

J: Ah. Nice.

The camera returns to the duo at their studio table. They both appear vaguely discomfited by the worm topic, but otherwise much the same as usual.

“No pictures of the worms or Prentiss, unfortunately,” Jon says.

“Is that because they’re supernatural, or because everyone drops their phone when they see them?” Georgie raises a brow, and Jon shrugs.

“I certainly wouldn’t want to stop running for my life to take a selfie with the worm woman.”

Georgie chokes, laughter bubbling through the questioning expression she was attempting to keep.

“Say cheese!” She suddenly turns to Jon and grins. “And all the worms smile with their teeth!”

Jon cringes, leaning away from her.

“Absolutely not. No. Nope—“

“Chomp chomp!” She pokes him to emphasize each word.

“Why did you have to put that image in my head. Why.”

“Actually, I put it in my own head too, and it’s horrendous! But if I have to suffer, so do you.” Georgie keeps poking him, punctuating each poke with a small ‘chomp!’

“Anyway! Remember to like, comment, and subscribe to keep our channel only slightly eaten by worms.”

Jon is curled up in a ball on the very farthest edge of his chair as Georgie’s pokes do not let up, so his piece is slightly muffled.

“Donate—donate to our Patreon for, uh, for bloopers, and—ow, Georgie—bloopers, and the Admiral extras, and more.”

“And follow our Instagram! Report your worm sightings there! @what_the_ghost!” She finally lets Jon go, in order to do proper jazz hands. Jon appears absolutely vengeful, unbeknownst to Georgie.

“That’s all for today, I think! See ya!”

—————

Tim cheers as the video on his laptop transitions to an outro. “Holy guacamole, hold the jalapeño.”

“So—what, we have YouTube spies now?” Martin grins.

“Apparently so!” Sasha drapes across both of them, reaching for Tim’s laptop. “Now, there’s one more thing to do on that end.”

“Oh? Pray tell,” Tim sets his chin in his hand, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Why, invite them here, of course!” Sasha finally succeeds in snatching the laptop from her admittedly awkward position. “An interview with the worm experts themselves, or something. Maybe they’ll actually manage to get them on video.”

“Are you saying we’re going to be on YouTube, my dear boss?” Tim is probably way more excited than he should be at that prospect.

“That’s up to our new friends,” Sasha winks, “but we just might.”

Chapter Text

The video opens on Georgie, sitting alone at the table in the studio. Her hair has been quickly thrown up in a barely-holding bun, and her entire left arm is covered in plasters. The Admiral sits princely on the table corner.

“Hello, lovelies,” she waves, a small, slightly awkward smile on her face. “Don’t worry! Everyone’s fine. Jon wanted to be here, but I wouldn’t let him. He says hello!”

She takes a deep breath, and her brows furrow, as though she’s trying to figure out what to say.

“This is just something of a disclaimer. Things in this video get... weird, and bad? Again!” she waves her arms, hasty, “everyone is fine! We’ve been putting updates on our Instagram, everyone is alright and getting cabin fever. But, ah, um. A few warnings for um, worm-related issues and injuries, and a lot of terrible camera work. Oh, and screaming and shouting? Is that a content warning?” She chuckles lightly. “In any case, you know about it now.”

She takes another breath. She doesn’t seem nervous, or scared—just vaguely uncomfortable. But she looks at the camera and smiles.

“Now that YouTube can’t castrate us for disturbing content or whatever,” she grins, “let the games begin!”

The video cuts away with a vaguely spooky sound effect. There doesn’t seem to be an introduction this episode.

It reopens on a somewhat busy London street, with Georgie standing on the pavement. Across the street, an ornate and clearly old building stands proud. A stylized owl logo is clearly displayed.

“Hey there, hi there, ho there! I’m Georgie Barker, and from behind the camera—“

”I’m Jonathan Sims.”

The buzzing of the street doesn’t quite overwhelm their voices, but it’s a close thing.

“And welcome back to What the Ghost! As you may have noticed,” Georgie gestures around her, “we are not in our studio! That’s right, folks—we’re going on-site!”

“The Magnus Institute, London is an organization dedicated to the collection and categorization of paranormal experiences, beginning in the nineteenth century.” Jon’s Narrator Voice mostly fails, due to the surrounding cacophony. “Anyone can make a statement and add their own encounter to the collection.”

“You all might have noticed the spontaneity of our worm research,” Georgie leans in conspiratorially, “that’s because it was representatives from the Magnus Institute’s archives that asked us to look into it! And now, they’ve invited us to do a proper interview!”

“It’s more official than we’re used to,” Jon muses.

“Yeah, usually we just show up and hope for the best—when we even go on-site at all.” Georgie shrugs. “We usually only go when we can steal Melanie’s crew, but this is important so we’re making do!”

“Doubting my skills as a cameraman?”

“Absolutely.”

“Rude.”

They begin to make their way across the street.

“You nearly took a job here, didn’t you?” Georgie asks.

“Almost,” Jon says. “As a researcher. You came up with the channel just in time.”

“Imagine!” Georgie laughs, “I almost had to interview you!”

“Oh please, as a lowly researcher? Not a chance.” The camera jostles slightly as they step into the pavement in front of the Institute. “Anyone can make a statement here. I would’ve been spending my days going over nothing but paltry rumors.”

“Don’t say that to our interviewees,” Georgie winks.

“I wouldn’t dare. The archives will at least have historical value, if little in the way of the supernatural.”

“That’s what you thi—oh, ew.” Georgie’s face scrunches in disgust. The camera shakes violently as Jon jumps back, and then refocuses as he zooms in to show a wriggling shape on the pavement. Georgie’s boot quickly crushes the silver worm with a squelch.

“Eugh, that’s... ugh.” Jon returns the camera to its normal positioning. Georgie’s smile is wry.

“At least we know the Institute has some firsthand experience,” she shrugs.

“I... think we all might prefer otherwise,” Jon says.

They both stand in front of the carved wooden doors of the Magnus Institute. Georgie pushes the door open with a slight heave. The video flickers briefly, almost imperceptibly, as Jon takes the camera over the threshold. He turns it towards Georgie, who gives a thumbs up and smiles. The video cuts away.

—————

The name tag of the woman at the front desk reads ‘Rosie.’ She smiles and waves politely as Georgie and Jon enter, footsteps echoing.

“Here to make a statement?” She asks.

“Not exactly,” Georgie says. “We’re from What the Ghost? We were invited by the archives team.”

“They... didn’t mention it, but then again, it’s the archives.” Georgie and Jon exchange glances. Rosie mutters something under her breath and taps on a computer in front of her. “You should both be good! It’s just over that way, downstairs,” she points. “Oh!” Rosie gestures towards the camera and tripod in Jon’s hands. “Not sure how useful that thing’ll be—this building hates anything digital. Halfway impossible to even take a proper picture.”

“Oh. Hm. Well, thank you!” Georgie smiles, and Rosie nods and does the same.

“You didn’t have any issues with the camera, did you?” Georgie asks as she and Jon make their way to the archives.

“Nope. It plays back just fine, as far as I can tell.” Jon skips to the end of the recording, showing Georgie’s thumbs up, perfectly clean of interference.

“Strange. Maybe the digital gods have decided to take pity on us today,” Georgie muses. Jon chuckles.

As the get closer to the archives, Jon starts to prep the camera for recording.

“You’re not going to hide behind that thing the whole time, are you?”

“I’m a grown man,” he half-scowls, “I can hide behind whatever I please.” Georgie elbows him, and Jon jabs her right back. She chokes on a laugh.

“You still have the pokiest elbows of any person I have ever known!”

“It’s a skill.” Jon tips an invisible hat in her direction.

—————

The video cuts back in on Georgie opening the archive door and shouting “Surprise!”

“Hey hey, look who it is!” One of the two men in desks grins. The other smiles slightly, raising his hand and then quickly lowering it in an aborted wave. They both stand.

Georgie grabs the camera from Jon’s hand, quickly stabbing it onto the tripod and placing it in position.

“The name’s Stoker... Tim Stoker,” the first man smirks, “but you can just call me Tim. My friend here is Martin,” he claps a hand on the second man’s shoulder, and this time he actually does wave. “We’re our Archivist’s lovely and talented and overall fabulous assistants.” He winks at the camera, before going to shake Georgie’s hand.

“I’m Georgie and that’s Jon, obviously,” she matches Tim’s grin. She goes over to Martin, while Jon draws himself up stiffly when he shakes Tim’s hand. Martin is, at least, equally awkward, but introductions manage to be accomplished.

“Starting the party without me?” A door creaks open from offscreen, and a woman walks into the frame.

“Meet the one! The only! The glorious! The magnificent! Sasha James, our Head Archivist!” Tim claps and exhales loudly in an impression of a cheering crowd. Martin politely applauds along.

“It’s an honor!” Georgie reaches to shake her hand, and Sasha gladly obliges.

“Oh, the honor is all mine. You two might be the only reason my lovely assistants have gotten any work done at all.” She leans in, stage whispering. “They’ve been using your research!”

“Ha!” Jon whips around to face Georgie. “I told you the bibliography was worth it!”

Sasha cackles, while Tim and Martin sputter indignantly.

“They’re just very well-sourced!” Martin protests.

“I can’t believe you’ve outed us in front of the celebrities, boss,” Tim moans. “On camera! My image will never recover.” Sasha pats his cheek.

“I’m sure your image will be fine.”

“Nope! I’m done for! Ruined!”

Georgie presses a hand to her mouth, laughter clearly in her eyes. Jon is looking back and forth, bemused. Martin catches his eye and shrugs, helpless.

“Oh!” Sasha exclaims, suddenly pointing at Tim. “The thing!”

“Oh, right!” Tim runs out of frame, and returns holding a Polaroid camera. “Say cheese!”

The camera flashes, mercilessly giving Georgie and Jon barely any time to prepare. She ends up knocking them both off-balance after hurriedly throwing an arm around Jon’s shoulders, nearly falling into the desks. But the picture comes out at least, and Tim pins it among a series of other Polaroids, on a corkboard just barely visible on the far wall.

“Sorry about that,” Sasha smiles, not looking sorry at all. “But you guys saw the Graham Folger thing, right? With the Polaroid pictures? We keep a few around as safeguards. Just in case.”

Jon readjusts his crooked glasses with a scowl, but mutters “That’s fair, I suppose.”

“Ooooooo, we should get one of those,” Georgie pokes his shoulder.

“You and I both know we’ll only end up taking pictures of the Admiral.” He raises a brow.

“Well we don’t want the boy to get replaced, do we?”

“To be entirely fair,” Martin adds, “you guys do have the cutest cat.”

“See!”

“Good point,” Jon concedes.

“Alrighty,” Georgie lightly claps her hands. “We do have something of extreme importance to discuss.”

“Worms,” all three archival workers say, sagely, and simultaneously—before looking at each other incredulously, and cackling.

“Martin’s the one you’ll want to interview for some real worm experience,” Sasha says after she’s caught her breath, “but I’ve got quite a few worm-related statements we can go through too. Shall I show you to my lovely office?”

“Sounds perfect,” Georgie says. Jon goes over behind the camera to pick it up, and they make their way through a door labeled ‘Head Archivist.’

“In front of you,” Sasha gestures broadly, “you’ll see a disorganized stack of statements. To your left, you’ll see an extremely disorganized stack of statements. And to your right, if you look veeeeery carefully, you’ll see an excessively disorganized stack of statements.”

“What a fascinating place,” Georgie grins. “Do you think we’ll be able to spot a ridiculously disorganized stack of statements?”

“Only if you look closely, and stay quiet—“ Sasha lowers her voice to a stage whisper. “They’re spooked by loud noises and sudden movements.”

Jon sets the camera back up, presumably in a back corner, and comes back into frame. The office is quite cramped with five people in it, so Tim and Martin end up almost out of sight of the camera completely.

Sasha is currently digging through a nearby box, papers rustling as she mutters numbers to herself. “Aha! There we go—“

Startlingly, Jon yelps and jumps backward, accidentally bumping into Sasha.

“Oh! Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, breathless, “I’m sorry, there’s—ah, there’s a spider on the wall.” He backs away, embarrassed, to nearly hide behind Georgie.

“Hm. Oh dear,” Sasha frowns. “Nasty little thing.”

“I’ve got it.” Georgie (used to being the designated spider-killer) picks up a random book from one of the shelves. “Mind if I use this?”

“Go right ahead,” Sasha waves.

“Wait, wait, wait, hold on a minute! Don’t—don’t kill it, we can just—” Martin tries to make his way across the office, but can’t quite reach Georgie in time. She smacks the wall with the heavy book. Everyone (sans Martin) cheers as the spider is most certainly killed—until the shelf collapses onto the ground, that is.

Georgie winces. “Sorry about that.”

“Meh, it was doomed anyway.” Sasha shrugs.

“I think you made a hole in the wall, actually,” Tim squints at the mess of shelving, books, paper statements, and dust. “Wait a second, is that—“ he scrambles back, cursing.

A truly horrible squelching, wriggling, wet sound overwhelms the video. Silver-white worms begin to fill the office, crawling up the floors and walls and falling out the hole—at a speed worms should most certainly not be capable of.

Sasha swears, colorfully. “Everyone out! Go, go, go!” Most of them don’t need to be told twice. “Georgie, what are you doing?”

Georgie lunges across the room to snatch the camera off of its tripod, her left arm briefly overwhelmed by worms.

“I got it, I got it, I’m coming!”

The sound of worms increases drastically in volume, and a woman’s harsh, torn voice calls—

“Archivist.”

The video cuts out to black.

It returns to see Jon anxiously fiddling with its positioning, like he has nothing else to do with his hands.

”Ow!” At the sound of Georgie’s shout, Jon hurries over to her side. She’s sitting on the ground with Sasha beside her, using a corkscrew to viscerally twist burrowed worms from her arm.

“Sorry, sorry. That was a deep one. We’re lucky Martin had this at all, actually, but then again he’s been the most prepared out of all of us—and for good reason, too.” Sasha sounds distracted, mostly rambling to keep Georgie’s attention from the mess that her left arm has become.

Jon slides down the wall to sit beside Georgie, agitatedly tapping his fingers on the floor. She gives him a smile, and he rolls his eyes, gently jabbing his elbow into her good arm.

Tim keeps pacing in and out of frame, occasionally running his hands across his arms as though checking for nonexistent worms. Martin sits on the ground a ways from the impromptu surgery, counting the fire extinguishers they have stocked in the room they’re sealed in. From his expression, he thinks there are too few.

“Aaaaand, that’s the last one.” Everyone grimaces at the sound as Sasha digs the last worm from Georgie’s arm. “We don’t have any bandages in here, sorry—“

“—It hardly matters right now,” Georgie tucks her arm into her side, “but thank you.”

“You hardly have cause to be thanking me,” Sasha scoffs lightly. “If it weren’t for us, you two wouldn’t be here at all.”

“Honestly,” Jon replies, when Georgie cringes at the pain in her arm and can’t, “we... probably would have gotten ourselves into something like this eventually.”

“Inevitable in our line of work,” Georgie mutters once she catches her breath.

“Why’d you do that, anyway?” Martin frowns, his voice shaking only slightly. “Go back for the camera, I mean.”

“It’s what we came here for, isn’t it?” Georgie shrugs, then winces at the movement. “We came here for worms, and we... well, we certainly got them.”

“I can hardly blame you,” Sasha sighs. She pulls a tape recorder out from her pocket. “I’ve got my own.”

“The internet’s going to see these worms if it’s the last thing we do,” Jon says drily. Georgie huffs in agreement, almost a laugh.

“You’re like, like those superhero journalists. The ones that keep throwing themselves into battles with aliens and overpowered villains just so they can get it on camera.” Tim’s smile is strained, but the joke releases some of the tension in the room anyway.

“Are you calling me Lois Lane?” Georgie bats her eyelashes.

“I’m not not calling you Lois Lane,” Tim smirks.

“If you run off with Superman, I’m going to be very disappointed.” Jon crosses his arms. It’s impossible to tell if he’s joking based off of his voice or tone, but Georgie laughs.

“And who’s to say you’re not Superman yourself?” Sasha grins.

“My utter lack of physical strength, for one.”

“You’re wearing glasses, though!” Tim protests. “No one can tell if you’re Superman while you’re wearing glasses! Everyone knows that!”

“I would prefer to be able to see,” Jon scoffs.

“His status as possibly being the Man of Steel will have to be determined through other measures,” Georgie flicks his forehead, a gesture Jon returns wholeheartedly. “He’s practically blind.”

A particularly loud call from Prentiss shatters the briefly jovial mood.

“...We’re safe for now,” Martin speaks up. “The room is sealed—the, ah, the archives have rudimentary climate control since we’ve got some truly... truly old statements in here. But..” he sighs, trailing off.

“But we’re trapped,” Tim says with finality.

Sasha frowns. “Are we?”

Tim slows his pacing. Everyone looks towards her in confusion.

“Well, I mean—what about the tunnels?”

“What tunnels?” Martin frowns, and he and Tim exchange glances.

“Wait, you guys have tunnels?” Georgie looks almost excited at the prospect.

“Do you have tunnels? You don’t seem sure.” Jon raises a brow.

“Yeah, we have tunnels. I’m positive. Maybe I heard it somewhere weird, I’m... not sure, but that hardly matters now.” Sasha stands and makes a show of dusting off her hands. She takes one of the fire extinguishers from Martin’s pile.

“What—Sasha, are you—“ Martin begins.

“Yep!” Sasha grins, and then swings the fire extinguisher into the wall with all her strength. The drywall crumbles, and instead of anything solid, there’s empty blackness.

“The tunnels,” she gestures proudly. “Everyone take an extinguisher and use your phone’s torch.”

The camera briefly cuts off, and when it returns, the group is traveling the tunnels. The camera’s flash appears to be acting as it’s own torch, carried by Jon.

Faces pop in and out of the darkness, lit harshly by the white light of phone torches.

“Stop shining that thing in my eyes,” Georgie mutters.

“Then get out of frame,” Jon mutters back.

At the front of the group, Tim and Sasha yelp.

“Another one!” Sasha calls. The camera jerks, and then focuses just barely on a lightning-fast silver worm before Martin, flailing, manages to squash it under his shoe. He groans.

“Why are the tunnel worms so much faster?”

“Can’t say,” Tim turns and shrugs, his face briefly illuminated by torchlight.

“Maybe this is what they’re normally like?” Sasha says. “Maybe they’re just slower in the archives.”

“Hurrah, more archival weirdness.” Tim sighs heavily. Georgie glances over at Jon and the camera with a raised brow, but doesn’t say anything.

“We’re at another turn,” Sasha calls back. “Keep hugging the left wall.”

There’s a shifting in the beams of white light as everyone ensures they turn the right direction. Their footsteps echo in the tense silence.

“Okay,” Sasha suddenly stops. “I think... yeah, look, there’s a little sign—Martin, come up here?”

He shifts forward through their little group to stand by her. “What?”

“You memorized the route to the manual fire suppression release, right?”

“Yeah, and you all called it pointless.”

Sasha sighs, resigned. “Well, it’s not pointless now. That tunnel goes a short way and then leads you right up to maintenance. It’s not really a quick way out, but we’ll keep looking for one of those down here.”

“Wait, are you saying—are you saying I should go alone?” Martin’s face is invisible in the shadows, but it’s not difficult to hear the terror in his voice.

“I don’t like it,” Sasha says, “but we need the buddy system down here, and where you’re going... the worms probably haven’t reached. Prentiss came after the archives specifically, not the rest of the Institute.”

“I can’t—I can’t go alone, Sasha—“

“Here,” Georgie says, walking up towards him. “Take my extinguisher. If you want, name it Wilson.” That makes Tim chuckle softly.

“Don’t worry, man,” he claps Martin’s shoulder. “You know these suckers better than anyone else here. They got nothing on you.”

“I don’t—I really, really don’t like this,” Martin stutters, but there’s steel in his voice this time. “But I’ll do it. I—I’ll do it.”

“Thatta-boy!”

“Thank you,” Sasha smiles wearily, her face illuminated by Tim’s torch. “Give us... fifteen, maybe twenty minutes to get out of here. We’re close, I think.”

“Good luck!” Georgie calls as Martin turns to go. Jon echoes the sentiment, less enthusiastically. They all wait until he’s out of sight, before turning and heading back to the left.

—————

He has to go through some ridiculously steep stairs and up a grate in the floor, but Martin makes it to maintenance. The boilers loom over him in the dim light as he catches his breath sitting on the floor.

He gets up. He keeps going.

He pulls the fire alarm, as an afterthought. If the worms haven’t breached the upper levels by now, they will soon.

His shoes clang oddly on the grated floors. He’s almost there. He’s almost—

“Elias?”

“Ah! Hello, Martin.” Elias is... standing right there. In front of the fire suppression system.

“Elias, what—what are you doing here? You need to go!” Martin, in a burst of panic-fueled confidence, pulls Elias away from the suppression system and starts pushing him in the direction of the exit.

“Now now, Martin, I was only trying to figure out the fire suppression system—I saw the worms in the archives, and thought you all might want—“ He tries to wrestle out of Martin’s grip, but he ultimately can’t.

“Elias, please. You need to get out of here. We’ve got this handled, alright?”

“...Fine, fine.” Resigned, he sighs, and... probably leaves. Probably.

Martin exhales, goes back to the suppression system, and starts counting the minutes.

—————

The video stutters oddly before resuming as normal. Across the bottom of the screen, words read: Editor’s Note: There was a lot of silent walking, so I cut most of that out ;)

There is now the constant, faint ringing of the fire alarm in the background.

Georgie, now lacking an extinguisher, has moved to walk in the middle of the group. Sasha still leads, but Tim has moved to the back with Jon, evidenced by the occasional peace sign, wave, or shadow puppet in front of the camera.

A loud, sudden burst of worms comes from another branching fork in the tunnels as they walk past it. They quickly start to coat every surface, cutting Georgie and Sasha off from Tim and Jon.

“Can you guys cross?” Georgie calls, even as she and Sasha start backing farther away, trying to escape the quickly-spreading worms.

“No, I don’t think so,” Tim calls back, only the slightest tremor in his voice. He turns to Jon. “We—we need to go.”

“I’m not—I can’t—I’m not just going to leave Georgie!” Jon’s voice is distraught.

“She’ll be fine. And Sasha will—Sasha has to be fine. They’re—they’re the competent ones, yeah? They know what they’re doing.” Tim starts edging them both backwards, stomping on worms that get too close and staying away from the walls.

“It’ll be okay!” Sasha’s voice is barely audible over the squelching worms. “Just run!”

“See?” Tim breathes. “Let’s go. We gotta go.”

The camera cuts off.

—————

“Wait, I thought we were hugging the left?” Georgie asks as Sasha takes a sudden turn.

“We were, but... there’s something this way. I’m sure of it.”

“Better than the nothing in front of us?”

“Exactly.”

They walk in silence for a moment, the only sounds the whirring of Sasha’s tape recorder, the faint blaring of the fire alarm, and the echoing of their footsteps.

“Heh, there’s a wine bottle over there.” Georgie shines her torch at the floor, where the light glinted off of the glass. “Oh! And crisps!”

“Think some employees had a party down here?”

“Pfft, maybe. Don’t know why you’d want to, though.”

“A bit spooky for your tastes?”

“Only a little.”

They keep going. The darkness and winding turns start to blend together. Georgie is certain that she’d never find her way out, without Sasha leading.

“Hold on.” Sasha stops. Georgie nearly runs into her.

“Is that a door?” Normally that wouldn’t be odd, but the tunnels previously had just been that. Tunnels. No doors, just winding, empty pathways.

“Yep.”

“...Are we going to open it?” Georgie raises a brow, even though Sasha probably can’t see it.

“Do you want to?”

“No, but also yes.”

“Yeah, me too.” Sasha sighs, and opens the door.

They’re immediately assaulted by the smell.

Shining their torches, there is... dust, cobwebs... a lot of cardboard boxes, cassette tapes... and...

And a dead woman, sitting slumped on a chair.

Sasha curses. Georgie backs away against the wall, as far as she can get from the body.

“What—oh, oh my word, oh goodness. Okay. Okay! Okay, okay, okay. Ooooookay. That’s a dead body. That’s what that is.”

“That’s...” Sasha is frozen, her torch shining on the corpse. Three bullet holes glimmer dully. “That’s Gertrude Robinson,” she whispers. “My predecessor.”

“Your predecessor—an old woman—was shot and left to die and rot forever in the dark, spooky tunnels underneath your workplace?” Georgie turns to her, incredulous.

“They told me she went missing,” Sasha slumps, tension bleeding from her shoulders as she shrugs, helplessly. “Gertrude—I didn’t really know her, no one did, but... well, she wasn’t exactly a kindly old librarian. There’s... there’s a lot more to this place than I think we know. Gertrude knew it.”

Georgie shines her light around the dusty room once more.

“We’ll figure it out, then.”

“We have to.” Sasha nods, steel returned to her voice. She walks forward, brushing cobwebs out from in front of her. “We need to take as many of these tapes as we can.”

“Wait, what?”

Sasha taps the tape recorder in her own pocket. “Gertrude recorded just as much as me. Any knowledge she had will be useful. Just... pick up as many boxes as you can carry, I guess.” Georgie nods. They manage about three boxes each.

“Will you be able to come back? Get the rest?” Georgie asks, trying to adjust her hold as best as she can, keeping some weight off of her bloodied left arm.

“Probably not. I don’t know if I’ll be able to find here again, and... the police will probably confiscate the rest.”

“We won’t be able to run like this.”

“We’ve been down here a while. Hopefully... hopefully we won’t need to. If it comes to that, then... then it does.” Sasha looks over at Georgie from behind her stack of boxes, and smiles, just a bit.

“You ready?”

“As I can be.” Georgie’s grin in return is strained, but there nonetheless.

—————

The video cuts back in, showing the back of Tim’s head. The flash has been turned off, but a dim light is creeping in from somewhere. Tim turns to the camera.

“Well, YouTube,” he smiles, shakily. “If we make it out of here alive, you better make me go viral.”

“We found a trapdoor,” Jon says by way of explanation. “We don’t know where it goes. It... may or may not lead into the archives.”

“Full to the brim with wriggly, squiggly worms, wiggling with murderous intent.”

“And Prentiss.”

“And Prentiss!”

They’re quiet for a second.

“Uh...” Tim snaps his fingers. “Oh! YouTube! If I do die, tell my parents I love them very much. Don’t show them this video, it’s probably too gruesome, but like. Tell them.”

“...Georgie, you’d better be okay,” Jon says after a moment. “The Admiral needs you, alright?”

He and Tim both take a few deep breaths.

“Ready?” Tim asks, hands on the trapdoor.

“I hope so.”

Tim pushes the trapdoor open. For a second, the tunnel is flooded with light, but it’s immediately darkened by a crawling, slithering horde of worms. Jon curses, violently, and the camera drops to the ground with a clatter. The fire alarm blares at an impossibly loud volume. The camera’s view is briefly obscured by the white cloud of CO2 from an extinguisher, but it quickly sputters out.

Through brief spaces in between the worms, a woman in a tattered red dress can be seen standing above the trapdoor, smiling. She opens her mouth, and asks—

“Where is the Archivist?”

The camera cuts out, this time to black.

After a second, it cuts back in to see Georgie, once more alone in the studio.

“...And there you have it.” She opens her arms, somewhat awkwardly, in a ‘tada!’ fashion. “That’s how we got... attacked, and partially eaten by worms! I don’t care how good they are for soil, I hope I never see one again.” She chuckles.

“You can expect more from our new friends at the Magnus Institute in the near future. Once they’re allowed back at work, that is.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ears. “Um... oh, yeah, regular videos for What the Ghost will return next week! We’re just as excited as the rest of you.”

She reaches over and pulls the Admiral into her arms. He meows grumpily, but settles into a comfortable position anyway.

“Remember to like, comment, and subscribe to keep our channel as far away from worms as it can possibly get. I swear this kind of video isn’t our usual MO,” she grins. “Donate to our Patreon for bloopers, the Admiral, and more! See you all later!”

She waves, and the video cuts away to the outro.

—————

There’s a series of Instagram posts from @what_the_ghost over the past few weeks.

The first is a picture taken from a hospital, of George and Jon, who are both in hospital beds that have been pushed closer together. Georgie’s left arm is covered in bandages, as is Jon’s entire right side. Georgie’s left hand is holding Jon’s right, and they’re both making peace signs with their other hands. Georgie’s grin is probably far too bright for the hospital setting, but then again, so is Jon’s small half-smile. Melanie can just barely be seen in a chair off to the side, rolling her eyes. The caption reads: “Photo creds to @sashjjjjjj 💞”

The second is at an unfamiliar flat. Squeezed onto the small couch are Georgie, Jon, and Tim, all three of them still swathed in bandages. Georgie and Tim look delighted to be there, while Jon is rolling his eyes. Standing behind the couch, Martin is caught in the middle of laughing at something. Sasha is perched on the back of the couch’s edge, gesturing wildly. The caption reads: “we forgot we had the timed camera on !!!” @sashjjjjjj, @martinkblackwood, and @timthestoked are all tagged in the photo.

The third, and most recent, is back at Georgie and Jon’s flat. They’re both asleep on the couch, the thick bandages now replaced with simple plasters. Georgie is leaning onto Jon’s left side, her hair half-braided. The Admiral is sitting on Georgie’s lap, looking directly at the person taking the picture as though daring them to move anybody. The caption reads: “why do I even bother coming over anymore? <3” @ghosthuntuk is tagged in the photo.

Chapter Text

[CLICK]

ARCHIVIST
I know this is probably the last thing you want to be doing right now. I’m... I’m sorry, I just want to have it all recorded.

GEORGIE
Nah, you’re fine. I don’t mind.

ARCHIVIST
[Tired] Mind... mind telling me your perspective on the, ah, events?

GEORGIE
Nothing too interesting, I’m afraid. The same as what you, and probably everyone else has said. Jon and I came by to interview you all on worms, we went into your office... I knocked a hole in your wall... sorry about that, by the way—

ARCHIVIST
No, no, [short laugh] it’s not like it was your fault we had worms in our walls.

GEORGIE
Still! First thing I do when I come over to your archives is smack a hole into it.

ARCHIVIST
[Dry] Oh, the horror.

GEORGIE
Heh. Let’s see... the worms all came, then, and I grabbed the camera, got myself injured, and we all ran into the sealed room. Then it was your turn to knock a hole into the wall! But this one was helpful!

ARCHIVIST
Ha!

GEORGIE
We wandered the tunnels a bit, following you, until you sent Martin on his own adventurous journey. And then more wandering, and then you and I got split from Jon and Tim.

ARCHIVIST
Terrifying, that was.

GEORGIE
Yeah, it was! I love him to death, but I have no faith in Jon’s sense of self-preservation.

ARCHIVIST
Nor I in Tim’s. And look, they got wormed!

GEORGIE
And you and I, on the other hand, escaped without a scratch! Bar my arm, of course.

ARCHIVIST
Of course.

GEORGIE
Um... oh, right. That’s where we found Gertrude, got the tapes—did you get those to your flat, by the way?

ARCHIVIST
Thankfully, yeah. Haven’t started listening to them yet, but I’ll keep you guys updated.

GEORGIE
Alrighty. Uh... after that, I just followed you until you got us up a few flights of stairs that led to like, a weird broom closet? Or something?

ARCHIVIST
Yeah, I think it was a hidden tile in a janitor’s closet.

GEORGIE
[Sigh] Wish my workplace had secret tunnels with secret entrances.

ARCHIVIST
Isn’t your studio in your flat?

GEORGIE
Yes, and?

ARCHIVIST
Good point.

GEORGIE
And I think that’s about it? We got tossed around through quarantine and the hospital for a while, but that’s probably not relevant.

ARCHIVIST
I was wondering, actually—I haven’t watched the video—

GEORGIE
Don’t blame you for that one. It was a mess for me to edit, honestly. Didn’t much like watching the worms again, either. [Muttered] At least they didn’t have teeth.

ARCHIVIST
Oh, yeah, you had to put it all together. Yeesh. But I was wondering... what was the reaction, to it? Like, from your fans, or even from the news. It’s not often that something this insane actually gets posted.

GEORGIE
From our fans, it’s been wild. From the Internet in general, actually. Our subscriber count skyrocketed. I think any skeptic that might’ve been keeping up with us has been converted by now. A few viewers have claimed it’s a hoax, which. Fair. But we really don’t have the budget for a hoax of that quality, and all of our fans have backed that up. The news... the news hasn’t said anything at all. It’s just been viewers and other content creators.

ARCHIVIST
Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?

GEORGIE
Oh, I don’t need to wonder. It’s a coverup. The video’s been banned in every country except the UK and America, as well.

ARCHIVIST
Geez.

GEORGIE
Yeah.

ARCHIVIST
I... think that’s all? Thank you, Georgie.

GEORGIE
Yeah, no problem! Don’t forget to show up for drinks this weekend. We’re dragging everyone.

ARCHIVIST
I’ll be there, you can count on it!

[CLICK]

...

[CLICK]

ARCHIVIST
Sorry about having to do this, I just—

JON
No, no. You’re fine. I don’t mind.

ARCHIVIST
...Alright, if you say so.

JON
You want to get it all down, right? All sorted out? I understand.

ARCHIVIST
I... yeah. Well, I got the first part of everything from Georgie, so I just need to know what happened after you and Tim got separated from us?

JON
I don’t think there’s much to say. We mostly just... ran. The tunnels were... really, really weird. I think... I think they mess with your head?

ARCHIVIST
I thought the same! No one else mentioned it, though. Makes your brain feel all... weird, like you can’t quite think straight.

JON
Odd. Very, odd. Yeah, I felt it too.

[BEAT]

JON
Well, eventually we... came upon a trapdoor. There was some light spilling out from it, so we knew it went out of the tunnels, at least. We weren’t sure when we’d get another chance to exit, so even if it went into the archives... oh well.

ARCHIVIST
And it did go into the archives?

JON
Oh yes. Very much so. Lots of worms, very nasty, unpleasant business. We extinguished what we could, but there were just... a lot. A lot of worms. Uh... I think, ah, I think we both blacked out, since the next thing I remember is being dragged outside on a stretcher, so...

ARCHIVIST
You and Tim had a lot of worms in you. Scared the rest of us half to death, actually.

JON
...Sorry. I’ve already gotten the talking-to from Georgie.

ARCHIVIST
I’ll bet you have. If it makes you feel better, Martin and I tag-teamed Tim.

JON
[Genuine sympathy] Oh dear.

[BEAT]

JON
I suppose that all on my end. Could I... could I ask you something?

ARCHIVIST
Sure, go ahead.

JON
How did you know where to go? Through the tunnels, I mean.

ARCHIVIST
[Slow exhale] I’ve been wondering the same thing, honestly. At first I thought I just got lucky with my guessing, but then it kept happening. That could still be the case—just a coincidence—but... I work at the Magnus Institute.

JON
I got Tim and I to the trapdoor. Still not sure how. I don’t know if that’s a coincidence either, but it didn’t feel like it. I hope it is.

ARCHIVIST
For both of our sakes, so do I.

JON
[Unsure] Panic is also an option. Stress. Maybe we wandered more than we think.

ARCHIVIST
[Also doubtful] Maybe. Well, I won’t keep you any longer. Make sure you’re ready for this weekend, by the way. Georgie’s dragging all of us out for drinks. Her words, not mine.

JON
Don’t remind me. I’ve been hearing all week about how I’m expected to ‘talk to people.’

ARCHIVIST
[Sarcastic, teasing] Socialization. How awful.

JON
Don’t you start.

[CLICK]

...

[CLICK]

ARCHIVIST
And I thought working in Artefact Storage was bad. At least this job pays better.

I still feel bad about getting Georgie and Jon involved, but they want to stay involved, apparently. I can’t deny that it’ll be nice to have friends on the outside. Our ‘YouTube spies,’ like Tim calls them. And... they are our friends now, which is... it’s nice. Suppose that’s what happens when you get attacked by worms together. You all go out for drinks after.

The police are going to start investigating Gertrude’s murder soon. Nothing big, apparently, but enough that they’ll be in and out of the archives while we’re working. I was right about the tapes. They’ve confiscated the ones we left behind as evidence, and I don’t think I’ll be seeing them anytime soon. But at least I’ve got six boxes of tapes in my flat. Hopefully, it’ll bring us at least a few steps closer to figuring out what... what all this is.

And it is something. There’s... there’s something.

End recording.

Chapter Text

A series of posts by What the Ghost on their Patreon, as special content.

—————

Bloopers!!!

[Across the Street]

”One night, being unable to sleep, Ms. Patel decided to glance at what Graham was up to—as his light was on. According to her, there was something indescribably ‘off.’—That’s stupid, why did I write that? ‘Off.’ Pfft. How do you even—what does ‘off’ even mean, categorically? Ridiculous. This is what I get for trying theatrics.”

*

[Page Turner]

“Oh! And follow our Instagram—wait. Wait. Jon.” Georgie stops short, and sighs.

“What.”

“We never told them the username. We’ve been telling them to follow our Instagram for weeks, Jon. And we’ve never told them the username.” She facepalms, heavily.

“Uh... oh dear. What even is it?” He frowns.

“I can’t remember!” She throws up her hands, and Jon laughs lightly. “I’ll check the page, I’m logged in on my phone, I’ll just—“ she violently takes her phone out of her pocket, and taps through it. “There. @what_the_ghost. Gotta remember that now.”

“It’s not even something weird. It’s just What the Ghost but with underscores.” Jon sighs, incredulous at them both.

“@what_the_ghost, @what_the_ghost, @what_the_ghost. Okay. I’m not going to bother messing with the cameras, we can just cut this bit. Do-over!” Georgie mimics slamming a clapperboard.

*

[Burned Out]

“At the door was a Catholic priest, who introduced himself as Father Edwin Burroughs, and that he had been sent to exorcise the house by the nurse that had treated Lensik previously. Wait, what the hell? No, there’s no way I screwed up the dates that badly. Two thousand... the priest can’t have shown up in 2009, that’s three bloody years later! What the... I don’t... ugh, I hate this one. Do a haunted house, she says. Everyone will love it, she says, I’m so excited for the haunted house, she says. Hard to do that when not even the proper years come up right!”

*

[Arachnophobia]

“See ya!”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Thank heavens,” Jon groans, and lets himself collapse onto the table. “I never want to even think about a ghost spider ever again.”

Georgie chuckles and ruffles his hair until he bats her hand away. She stands and starts to walk away, presumably to turn off the camera.

She freezes, just barely in-frame.

“Jon.”

He groans again, his voice muffled in his arms.

“What now.”

“We forgot the Instagram again.”

Jon curses. Georgie sighs, long and defeated.

“You know what? Whatever.” She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter. It’s fine. We’ll just leave it.”

*

[Squirm]

“There have been numerous sightings of Jane Prentiss since, though fewer actual encounters. She is always wearing a red dress, torn, with dark, scraggly hair. Her skin is in various stages of decay, depending on the timing of the sighting—oh, hello Melanie.”

“Chop chop, we gotta go.”

“Now? I’m recording.”

“Yeah, now, unless you want Georgie to eat all the popcorn by the time we get there. She’s saving our seats.”

“Ah. Right. I’m coming. Did she get you your weird American candy?”

“Junior Mints are a thing of beauty, Jonathan Sims. You just lack taste, Mister ‘Emotionally Attached to Aero Bars.’”

“At least it’s quality chocolate, and not a spicy leaf wrapped in a Tootsie roll.”

“You take that back!”

“Never.”

*

The video is shaky and slightly lower-quality than normal, apparently taken on a phone.

“Hello YouTube,” Melanie says from behind the camera. “Have a look at my idiot friends.” She turns the camera towards Georgie and Jon, looking exhausted and wrapped in bandages, in two hospital beds pushed closer together. Georgie grins and waves with her good hand. Her bandaged left hand is holding Jon’s bandaged right. Jon himself is apparently on enough painkillers to give a small smile, and a clumsy wave.

“We got wormed!” Georgie sits up and cheers. She glances over to the side at someone out of frame, and shrugs, unapologetically. Melanie turns her phone’s camera in that direction, zooming in on Sasha’s face. She is fondly rolling her eyes.

“Hurrah, you got injured.” She shakes her head. Melanie turns the camera back towards Georgie and Jon.

“Let me have this!” Georgie grins, both defiant and sheepish. “If I’m going to look like I escaped a horror movie, I’m going to have fun with it.” Jon murmurs his agreement, but he looks half-asleep.

“You’re both horrible,” Melanie states.

“We know,” Georgie winks.

“That’s m’job,” Jon slurs.

Melanie stands and reaches over, her hand now in-frame, to flick Georgie’s forehead, and shove her shoulders so that she’s laying back down on the hospital bed. Melanie also ruffles Jon’s hair as she goes to sit back down, and he frowns but doesn’t bat her hand away.

“Ah, sorry I’m a little late—“ She turns the camera over to the doorway, where Martin walks in, apologetically wincing. “—but I managed to find Tim.”

“Thank the Lord on high,” Sasha sighs, the tension bleeding out from her posture, and she finally flops down into a chair. “Where is he?”

“He made a stupid joke and got extra quarantined,” Martin chuckles, exasperatedly. “He’s fine, won’t be long before we can see him.”

“Drag him in here!” Georgie calls. “Make it a party!”

“Go to bed, Georgie!” Melanie zooms in on Georgie’s face, far more than necessary. Georgie scrunches her face up a frown. “You’re supposed to be the reasonable one,” Melanie sighs.

“I don’t wanna sleep.”

“You’re tired and drugged, GG. Bed.”

“Ugh. Fine.”

Melanie flips the camera around to show her own face, rolling her eyes and shaking her head, before stopping the video.

—————

The Grand Adventures of the Admiral

A series of videos are under this title.

Episode 3

The video opens on the Admiral, his tail swishing. He is on top of the refrigerator in Georgie and Jon’s flat, perched on the very edge. Assortments of sticky notes stuck to the fridge in various handwriting are visible, though most of the notes are indecipherable. Magnets are also stuck to the fridge, attaching a veritable collage of Polaroid pictures.

The Admiral shifts, uncomfortably.

Georgie’s voice filters over the video, in her best imitation of the Narrator Voice.

”Our deadly creature, Gingerus Admiralus, colloquially known as the Admiral, once again stalks the kitchen. However—the air is different this time. There is something indecipherably strange about the beast’s behavior.”

The Admiral carefully—almost nervously—attempts to stand on the edge of the fridge.

”It appears as thought he has gotten himself... stuck. Despite its graceful demeanor, this is not uncommon for a creature such as The Admiral.”

He shakily manages to keep his balance, but only barely. His thick fur is pressed sharply against the cabinet that goes over the fridge, preventing it from being a stable perch.

”Oh! Look, just here. It is getting dangerously close to this great beast’s feeding time. Is he desperate enough to jump?”

The Admiral crouches as though he’s going to leap from the refrigerator to the counter, but freezes.

”We have hardly ever seen the Admiral in such a timid state. We must hope he can gather his courage, or I fear for his livelihood.”

The Admiral spares a desperate glance towards the camera, but quickly sees no help forthcoming.

”Any second now...”

He leaps, landing solidly on the counter—then slips, knocking over a bottle of olive oil and several small jars of spices, and nearly slides straight into the sink before regaining traction and leaping to the floor.

”That was a close one, but he’s done it! Another victory for the vicious hunter.”

The Admiral trots over to his food dish—looking only slightly shaken—and immediately begins to mournfully wail at its empty state.

”The deadly beast cannot be sated. Will he survive the five minutes it takes to pour his food into the bowl? Find out next time, on: The Grand Adventures of the Admiral.”

—————

Don’t Tell Jon I Posted This ;)

It is an audio post, only a few minutes long, and the only one of its kind. Upon playing it, it appears to be a cover of a folk song, sung by Georgie and Jon as a duet. It is beautiful.

—————

Jon’s Stupid Bibliography (Ultimate Version)

Every single source Jon has ever used is cited here, in alphabetical order, and perfect APA format. The majority of the comments are either students thanking him for saving their lives, or someone just writing ‘NERDDDDD!!!!’

—————

Uni Shenanigans <3

The video and production quality of these is significantly lower than anything else on their channel or Patreon.

*

It opens shakily on Jon, sitting leaned against the wall on a ratty dorm bed. He looks significantly younger, wearing an Oxford t-shirt and sweatpants with hair falling over his eyes, streaked with barely any gray.

Georgie—also looking much younger—hurries into frame, leaping onto the bed, causing an ominous creak. Her hair is dyed outrageously bright, and she’s wearing a hoodie that looks like it belongs to Jon, but its large size seems like it would swamp him just as much as it’s swamping her.

“See!” She gestures to the camera.

“Ooooookay,” Jon says, slowly. “What about it?”

“Well, we have a camera now.”

“I can see that. Why?”

“For posterity.”

“What posterity?”

“I dunno. Just posterity.”

“Hm. Neat.”

*

“Are you dead yet, Jonathan?”

“I’ve been dead for years, Georgina.”

Jon is wrapped in at least three blankets, sitting on the floor of the library. He is surrounded by thick textbooks.

The video shakes as Georgie laughs, and reaches over to flick his forehead. He grabs her wrist in retaliation and pulls her down to the floor with him. She sets the camera down to face both of them.

“Are we just two library ghosts, then?” She grins, and snatches one of his blankets to wrap around herself.

“I’d love to be a library ghost, actually.” He pouts at her. “Just not like... a university library ghost.”

“We have plenty of those already.”

“Oxford is not haunted.”

They’ve definitely had this conversation before.

“Jon. It’s been around for over nine hundred years! I can guarantee you there is at least one ghost.”

“I should think, then, that the millions of students that go here would have decidedly noticed and reported a ghostly presence. As there is a lack of such evidence, I cannot be swayed.”

“Prick.”

“Yes. Your point?”

*

Georgie is typing frustratedly at a library computer.

“Why do I do these things. Why am I existing at the current moment. Why.”

“What did you do?” Jon, holding the camera, is clearly trying not to sound amused.

“I pulled a you, is what I did. I’ve got this stupid paper due in like thirty minutes, and I left printing until the last stupid minute and now the printers aren’t working.” Georgie slaps the table in frustration as though she expects it to do something.

“Should I be offended?”

“Not yet,” she nearly growls. “Right now the only person who should be offended is my inept professor who thinks that physical copies of papers are in any way better than if I just emailed him the thing and called it a day.” Jon laughs, softly.

She looks up. “Why are you videotaping my crisis?”

“For posterity.”

*

“I hope you realize I can never move again.” The video shakily focuses on Jon, laying on his back on an old couch. Georgie seems to be sitting normally, and from the positioning, his feet are probably on her legs.

Asleep on Jon’s chest is a tiny, fluffy, ginger kitten.

“This is the end for me,” he says seriously.

“You are the chosen one,” Georgie says between giggles.

“That’s it, my life is done. I’m just a bed for this cat now.”

“Would you consider it to be a fulfilling career?”

“Absolutely. Highly recommended, unless, of course, you’re a human and need to engage in human activities.” He shifts slightly, moving his hand slowly and gently to pet the kitten’s head.

“Ah. Good thing we’re aliens, then. Dunno what we’d do otherwise,” Georgie says sagely.

“I know, right?”

“It would be a terrible situation!”

“Dreadful, really.”

“Quite.”

“Have you thought of a name, yet?” He raises a brow, questioningly.

“Have you?”

“Nope. I’m hopeless.”

She laughs. “I knew that already. I think a title would be neat, though. Since he’s already a proud, proper little thing.”

“Something decently high-ranking, then?”

“Absolutely.”

“We can think on it. He’s still little yet.”

“Absolutely itty-bitty. He practically fits in my palm!” Georgie’s voice rises to nearly a squeal.

“I know! I’m so scared for him, all of the time. He’s got such tiny bones!” Jon looks genuinely distressed by this.

“Well we’ll just have to make sure he grows up big and strong, won’t we?” She reaches over to scratch behind the kitten’s ears, smiling when he leans towards her hand. “Since he’s so high-ranking, he’ll have to be the toughest guy around.”

“He has to make sure all the other cats know who’s boss.”

“Yes!” She grins, “exactly.”

—————

There’s a new announcement.

Regular content will resume next week! A little hint: Can there be a haunted band? Can’t wait to see you all again! <3

Chapter Text

“What is UP ladies and cats and gentlemen, we’re back!” Georgie raises her hands and twirls in her desk chair. She’s dressed in her usual mostly-casual affair, and it does nothing to hide the new pockmarked scars that trail up her left arm. “I’m Georgie Barker—“

Similar to Georgie, Jon looks much the same as he has in previous episodes, which is to say, a vaguely disheveled English professor. With slightly longer hair, maybe. His sleeves are long, but his own new scars are a bit more difficult to hide than that (if he were inclined to do so, that is). ”And I’m Jonathan Sims—“

“—And thanks to all of you lovelies, and to the horde of all of our brand new lovelies—we have a new camera! And other things!” Georgie gestures around the studio, which does appear to be more heavily-decorated than in previous videos.

“So without further ado,” Jon begins.

“Welcome back to What the Ghost!” Georgie finishes with a grin.

The intro plays through. It’s a different intro than usual, a new one—a bit higher quality, with some fancier editing. As it fades, Jon’s Narrator Voice overlaps the music: ”Grifter’s Bone.”

G: I spent so long on that intro, you all better have enjoyed that sucker.

”Grifter’s Bone is a old legend in the music industry. Despite its well-known status, there are few actual sources on what it is.

G: A travesty for you, I’m sure.

J: Utterly so. I found one article. One.

G: Really? But they’re all musicians joke about, half the time. It’s like their go-to urban legend.

J: Pretty much their only urban legend. I was expecting at least a few books.

G: But there was nothing! Nada!

J: Zilch.

G: Zip!

”The only comprehensive article that compiles the many versions of the story is by Jennifer Ling, from Earful.com.

J: We’ll get back to her later.

G: Oho? Do I smell the plot thickening?

J: No. That’s the Admiral. He needs a bath.

G: Mmmmmm whoever smelt it has to do it.

J: Absolutely not. I did it last time, and it took weeks for the scratches to heal, thank you.

G: But you—

J: Weeks, Georgina. Weeks.

”Ling describes Grifter’s Bone as either a band or a single man, called Alfred Grifter, who in a desperate attempt to gain fame and fortune as a musician, turns to the—quote—‘dark arts.’ But something goes wrong.

G: ‘Oh great and powerful Ancient One, claimer of souls, Bloodletting King of The Dead... please make me a pop star!’

J: [Choked laughter]

G: What kind of demon or—or devil, or whatever, would even consider that? ‘Would you like to become my servant for eternal life and power?’ ‘Nah I want to play guitar better.’ No wonder it went wrong!

J: Malekordizai the Scythe of Gore is not mad, he’s just disappointed.

G: Ha!

”Some stories describe a curse, or the crushing of his hands, but in any case the result is always the same—any music Alfred Grifter plays is unutterably awful.

G: Well—that’s something of a minor curse, actually. Just get another job at that point.

J: Start working in an office.

G: ‘That’s Alfred Grifter, he’s one of our IT guys. Just don’t let him start humming and you’ll be fine.’

J: Might be difficult to type with crushed hands, though.

G: Fair! Uh... hm. What job can you do without hands?

J: Most handless jobs are performative, which... Mr. Grifter should probably avoid.

G: Could he be a motivational speaker? Like, how to live with the loss of his hands, the dangers of black magic, the like?

J: As long as he doesn’t play any music, it should be fine?

G: TEDTalks with Alfred Grifter.

J: Pfft!

”He—or his band—has to sneak into gigs to play unannounced, because of it. Legend claims that the audience will tear off their ears because of how awful the music is.

G: Mood.

J: You’d tear off your ears at a bad concert?

G: I might. If it was awful enough.

J: It wouldn’t even completely hamper your hearing. You’d only be damaging the outer ear.

G: Shhhhhhhhhhh. Let me dream.

J: Dream of tearing your ears off?!

G: Shhhhh!

”Apparently, Ling managed to find an anonymous source that claimed they had actually experienced Grifter’s Bone. They described Alfred Grifter as ‘painfully thin, wearing a ratty, old brown suit that draped around him like flaps of ill-fitting skin. His thinning black hair was slicked back, and his face had a strange look of cruelty to it.’

G: That could be, like, any actor.

J: Every movie villain does look something like that.

G: True, but I also mean. Any actor.

J: Well. I—I mean.

G. You can’t deny it, can you?

J: No! I can’t! Why have you done this.

G: Because I’m always right.

J: Now that is blatantly false.

G: Oh yeah? Name one time I’ve been wrong!

J: This morning, when you thought that sugar wasn’t a pancake ingredient because they’re ‘not actual cakes.’

G: Well they AREN’T, it’s stupid that you need sugar!

J: Vanilla on its own is not proper flavoring, Georgina! That’s disgusting and incredibly bland of you!

G: Not everyone has cooking prowess, Jonathan!

J: It’s not cooking prowess! It’s googling a recipe and following it!

G: You don’t even time how long they cook until you flip them, you go by instinct like you’ve got some kind of pancake superpower. You expect me to be able to do that?

J: You literally just watch the bubbles on the top. That is all. And then replicate it once they’re flipped to the other side. It is really not that difficult.

G: Says you!

J: Yes! Says I!

”The anonymous source claimed they could not remember the music that the man played,

G: Well the charred mess I had to scrape off the griddle says otherwise, doesn’t it?

J: You got distracted by the Admiral and forgot to flip them! It has nothing to do with prowess—

G: Nope! Nope! I’m texting Melanie—

J: You can’t text Melanie she’ll disagree with me on principle!

G: There! See! See! She uses a timer to flip them because there’s no other way to tell—

J: Hold on, hold on. There! Look! Right there! Martin says you watch the bubbles on top!

G: Thats because Martin knows how to cook, you imbecile—

J: Tim says so too! Tim says you flip it ‘when it feels right.’ No one needs a timer except you and Melanie—

G: Ah ah ah! Sasha uses a timer! Ha!

J: What is wrong with you three?

G: We don’t have a magic cooking instinct!

”—nor any of the night itself, but they woke up wandering the streets covered in their own blood almost two hours later. The hospital said the slashes carved into their chest looked like they had been done by a boxcutter, but the victim had no memory of it at all.

J: There is no magic cooking instinct!

G: Oh please—wait. A boxcutter?

J: Oh uh—yeah. Gruesome, really.

G: Clearly. How did—they got cut up at the concert, right?

J: Presumably.

G: How did someone sneak a boxcutter into a concert?

J: That’s. A very good question.

The camera returns to the two in their studio. Jon has a laptop open in front of him, which he slides over to Georgie.

“There’s nothing else in the article except for this—the comment section is completely glitched out. I don’t know if that’s relevant, but...”

“Oh, that’s weird.” Georgie eyes widen, and she grins.

A screen recording is edited into the video. The entire comment section of the article is jumbled and flickering, geometric colors cracking and splintering what used to be words. It probably deserves an epilepsy warning.

“I have no idea what that could mean, but it’s definitely sketchy, at the very least.” Georgie slides the laptop back over to Jon, who places it under his chair. “What happened to Jennifer Ling?”

“Well!” Jon folds his hands together. “That is certainly a question.”

“Aaaaaaaand?”

“A few weeks after posting her article, she.... ah.... assaulted her elderly neighbor with a claw hammer, and then turned the hammer on herself. Neither of them survived.”

Georgie gapes at him.

“Yyyyyyyeah. It is. Ah. Mm. Graphic.”

“It sure is,” she exhales.

“But that’s it. Nothing else on Grifter’s Bone, I’m afraid.” Jon shrugs, a little helplessly.

“That’s it? A whole murderous musician/band, and there’s nothing else on him?” Georgie drags a hand through her hair.

“That is it!”

“Goodness. Theory time, I guess.”

“Please do not.”

“I will, thank you. I think the Alfred guy uses his guitar strings to murder people and drive them insane. I know this because have been personally attacked by a guitar string and I still have the scar. Those things are murderous.” She crosses her arms with a small ‘hmph.’

Jon gives a small, amused, and somewhat apologetic smile. “As much as I agree that guitar strings are out for blood, Alfred Grifter uses a keyboard.”

“Dammit,” she hisses. Jon covers a startled laugh with his hand.

Georgie sighs. “Weeellllllllllll I think that’s all. Don’t forget to like, comment, and subscribe to keep our channel from being mutilated by guitar strings and/or keyboards!”

“Donate to our Patreon for blooper compilations, the Admiral extras, and more.”

“Don’t forget to follow our Instagram, @what_the_ghost! See ya!” They both wave, enthusiastic on Georgie’s end and halfhearted on Jon’s.

The video cuts away to their short outro, advertising more videos.

—————

Sasha sets down the paper statement with a measured sigh. She doesn’t click the tape recorder off, and it whirs softly in the background, a white noise that shouldn’t be comforting. (It kind of is.)

“We’ve been exploring the tunnels. The three of us, I mean. It’s...” she sighs, heavily.

“There’s nothing down there. Well—there’s absolutely something down there. There’s a lot of somethings down there. There’s someone down there, too—they’re not as slick as they think they are. Clumsy. They leave trash, walk too loud. But... they’re not doing anything, and we can’t find them. Security probably wouldn’t believe us, and neither would Elias.”

She takes a deep breath.

“And besides that, there is nothing down there for us. I knew that, when Tim and Martin suggested exploring. There is nothing down there for us. I went anyway, though. I think it made them feel better. Sorry about that guys, if you listen to this. I don’t much care for whatever or whoever’s in the tunnels right now.”

She pauses, about to turn off the recorder, and then stops.

“Oh! The police don’t care about the the tunnels either. Thought they would, to be honest. They haven’t talked to us about Gertrude yet—I’m sure they will, but the two they’ve put on the case have only been here once, while we were still on leave. Took the boxes of tapes Georgie and I couldn’t grab and left. I’ve still got the others back at my flat, though. Haven’t listened to them yet.”

She can hear a rustling from outside, and then the door to her office opens.

“You almost done?” Tim asks. “It’s getting late. Don’t want you too exhausted, we’ve got places to be!” His grin is undiminished by the pockmarked scars scattered across his face like overlarge freckles. They’ve finally healed enough that he doesn’t have to coat himself in plasters anymore—thankfully for all of them, since he’d been moaning about nothing else.

“Just finishing up a recording, then I’ll be right out.” Sasha can’t help but smile back.

“You’d better be. I’ll be watching you, boss!”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He leaves, the door gently clicking shut behind him. Sasha lets herself laugh.

“I’ll make this brief, then. I haven’t listened to the tapes yet. I think... ugh, it’s stupid, but I think I’ve been scared? I want to listen to them—there has to be information on them that we’re missing, things that Gertrude understood that we don’t have the context for. I don’t know... maybe I’m worried that... that once I start listening to them, I’ll officially be in too deep, yeah? No going back.”

She chuckles.

“Too late for that, I think. My friends got wormed.”

She rustles around her desk, cleaning up somewhat, and takes her coat from behind her chair.

“I’m going to start, though. Not tonight—Tim would kill me if I showed up at work tomorrow looking like a zombie—but, y’know. Tomorrow, and such. I’ve got a lot of tapes to get through, and I do intend to be careful... mostly. But, hah, I’ve really got to go now, or Martin’s going to whip out the puppy eyes again.”

She stands, and pushes her chair in with a frankly awful screech against the wood flooring.

“End recording.”

Chapter Text

The video opens in darkness. Not complete darkness—the home-built studio still has a bit of light coming in—but it’s dark nonetheless. The faint outlines of Georgie and Jon are visible.

“When hinges creak in doorless chambers, and strange and frightening sounds echo through the halls...” Georgie’s voice is at an ominous near-whisper.

“Whenever candlelights flicker—“ at the word ‘flicker,’ she clicks on a torch to hold underneath her face. “—where the air is deathly still—that is the time when ghosts are present... practicing their terror with ghoulish delight!” She cackles, probably her best impression of the Wicked Witch of the West.

“Welcome, foolish mortals, to the Haunted YouTube Channel. I am your host—your What the Ghost Host, Georgie Barker!”

The barely-lit outline of Jon stands with a heavy sigh, briefly moving out of frame. He clicks the lights back on.

“And I’m Jonathan Sims,” he says as he sits back down with a huff.

“You’re so boring,” Georgie rolls her eyes.

“I aim to please,” he says with a raised brow.

“Everyone, please tell Jon that the Haunted Mansion monologue would be perfect for his voice. We’re going to peer pressure him into doing this.”

“I refuse. I will not.”

“You will! Welcome back to What the Ghost!”

The intro plays through. Jon introduces: ”Blood Bag.”

J: I’m so tired of bugs.

G: Mosquitos are better than worms! They don’t eat holes into your flesh!

J: Much less painful, but significantly more annoying.

G: Just slap some honey on the bites and you’re good to go.

J: Sounds fake.

G: Works on me, at least.

”This information comes from an account by Thomas Neill, a research assistant formerly working in malaria prevention at the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine, under Dr. Neil Thompson.

G: Was that on purpose? The name thing?

J: Absolutely.

”There was no malaria in their facility. Instead, they were attempting to prevent it by creating a substitute for blood that a mosquito would prefer over humans, in order to lessen malaria transmission.

G: That’s really interesting, actually.

J: They called it “hemoglobish,” which I thought you’d appreciate.

G: [Startled laugh] That’s brilliant! A Barker-worthy pun, indeed.

J: ...If you say so.

G: I hope you know I won’t be mosquitting those anytime soon.

J: Hey Melanie? Hey—hey Melanie? Come fulfill that threat to kill me, please.

G: Aw, Jon. You don’t look like you’re having a lot of pun.

J: Any day now.

”They ended up perfecting it, but it was far from cost-effective, so work continued while the researchers attempted to find cheaper materials. However, the funding began to run dry.

G: Ah, funding. The age-old bane of researchers.

J: I heard so many horror stories about funding while we were in uni.

G: Is that what this video is? No horrifying monster or tale of darkness and woe? Just funding?

J: Funding is the tale of darkness and woe.

G: Of course, of course, you’re right. My apologies.

”To attempt to fix the issue, Dr. Thompson sold a family heirloom. He claimed to be descended from a 19th-century physicist named John Snow who was very important to epidemiology at the time. The heirloom was a syringe that he claimed belonged to said John Snow.

G: John with an H, or Jon with no H?

J: With an H.

G: Aw, not Game of Thrones Jon Snow then.

J: That show is abhorrent.

G: It is rather raunchy, isn’t it?

J: Of all the fantasy series they could’ve adapted, why did they pick A Song if Ice and Fire?

G: Yeah, I think I’d fight George R. R. Martin, if given the chance.

J: Of all series! Why! There are so many better high fantasy books! Ones with less randomized, pointless character death, and less—all of that!

G: A shame. The TV show is alright, though.

J: That’s what you think.

G: You watch documentaries on the Gallic Wars for fun. You wouldn’t know a good TV show if it hit you in the face.

J: Hey, Vercingetorix was a fascinating historical figure, and equally interesting was his and his people’s conflict with Caesar and the encroaching Roman Empire! The Battle of Alesia was a key turning point in the conflict that led to the Roman occupation of the Gallic lands for centuries afterward—

G: Back to haunted mosquitoes, please? You can give me the spiel later, I promise.

J: Fine.

G: [Heh] I definitely should’ve known better than to open that can of worms.

J: You should have!

G: There, there.

J: [Indecipherable grumbling]

”After the selling of the syringe is when Mr. Neill claims everything started to go wrong.

G: Ominous! Full of... Ominosity?

J: Ominousness, I think.

G: Ah, gotcha.

”The heat in the laboratory began to increase to stifling highs, and air conditioning had no effect on it. The mosquitoes began to act unusually, lining their cages or gathering at the entrances, motionless. Nothing in the lab seemed to have caused the altered behavior. They became more and more bloodthirsty, attacking the ‘hemoglobish’ with vicious intent.

G: [Laugh] ‘Vicious intent’? Lovely word choice.

J: The way he described them, you’d think they were piranhas. ‘Vicious intent’ is perfectly accurate, thank you.

G: Suuuureeee. It’s in no way another instance of Jon Sims being overdramatic.

J: Hey!

”Nothing alarmed Mr. Neill as being supernatural in any way, until they discovered that the mosquitoes were somehow turning the ‘hemoglobish’ into actual blood, infected with malaria.

G: HM! Don’t like that!

J: Not one bit! How did they—generate a parasite? Malaria isn’t a bacteria or virus, it’s a plasmodium parasite. You can’t just spontaneously create a single-celled organism from nothing.

G: I believe that’s why it’s supernatural.

J: But still! The implications!

”Eventually, the project was shut down.

G: Gee, I wonder why?

”Mr. Neill claims that Dr. Thompson was enraged, glaring viciously at the mosquitoes as though they were at fault. He took a fire extinguisher—

G: LIKE THE WORMS!

J: Oh—you’re right, I didn’t—that is like the worms, isn’t it?

G: Is there—like, a mosquito Prentiss? Does someone like that show up?

J: Not that I know of? But that. I, uh. Hm.

G: HM!

”As Dr. Thompson entered the room, Neill claims a, quote, ‘tremendous buzzing’ filled the air. Realizing what was going to happen, he shut the door.

G: SMART! SMART! Brain cell alert!

J: Agreed. He probably saved the lives of everyone in that lab—excepting the doctor, of course.

G: [Applause]

”Thousands of mosquitoes erupted from their cages, swarming Dr. Thompson, and draining him completely of blood.

G: Eugh. Remind me to wear gallons of bug spray this summer.

J: Will do.

The camera returns to the duo in their studio. Jon does not seems to have any papers of follow-up with him.

“There ultimately wasn’t much to check up on. The incident is being, predictably, kept very quiet,” Jon says. “However, Mr. Neill was found dead in his home just last year—with a truly excessive amount of antibiotics there. No cause of death, though.”

“Very strange... but without more info, not much we can do,” Georgie shrugs, helplessly. “What do you think about the syringe, though?”

“I’m not sure if it was an actual good luck charm of some kind, or just a coincidental event for Neill to pin the start of the... events on.” Jon frowns, and habitually adjusts his glasses.

“I think it was probably something. I’m still hung-up on the fire extinguisher thing—if this was a similar event to Prentiss, then it might’ve been... holding the mosquitoes back, in some way.” She absentmindedly traces one of the circular scars on her arm. “Do you know who bought the thing?”

“No. Neill never got a name, and the description of the man is too vague to do anything with. But collectors of strange artefacts aren’t unheard of.”

“Like your mysterious Jurgen Leitner?” Georgie pokes his arm with a teasing grin.

“Don’t even get me started,” Jon mutters with surprising vitriol. More clearly, “I don’t think it’s Leitner. He’s pretty exclusively a book man, I think.”

“Fair. Probably all manner of weirdo collectors out there would want that syringe.”

“Whatever pawn shop or museum it’s in now is very well-protected against mosquitoes,” Jon says, smiling slightly.

Georgie laughs. “That it is!” She claps her hands together and folds them on the table. “But I think that’s all for today, fellows and fellas. Don’t forget to like, comment, and subscribe to keep the mosquitoes far, far away. Please. We’ve had enough.”

“Donate to our Patreon for bloopers, the Admiral, and more.”

“See ya!”

The video clicks off.

—————

The tape recorder gently whirs on Sasha’s desk, unnoticed by the woman in her office.

“Hello, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No, no, you’re fine, I was practically finished anyway.” Sasha sets the statement aside, folding her hands on her desk. The policewoman pulls a chair to sit across from her.

“I’m Basira Hussain, one of the officers assigned to Gertrude’s case. I’m going to talk to anyone who might’ve known her. It’s mostly a formality, you understand.” Her tone is brusque, but not unkind.

“Of course.”

“How well would you say you knew Gertrude Robinson?”

“Not well, I’m afraid. But honestly... I don’t think anyone did,” Sasha laughs, mirthless and vaguely self-conscious. “She certainly wasn’t like you’d expect. The cold, ruthless type. Like an ancient arithmetics teacher that’s been dealing with pre-teens for too long. She liked people to think she was a doddering, sweet old lady, I think. Liked to be underestimated.”

“What use would an archivist have for being underestimated?” Basira frowns slightly, only visible in the faint furrowing of her brows.

“I don’t know,” Sasha sighs, honest. “But that’s what she was like. Some people just like being underestimated. Like the power they feel like they’re holding over you.”

“Interesting. Would you say that Ms. Robinson had any enemies?”

“None that I knew of. I only spoke to her a few times. She was reclusive, usually kept to the archives. I don’t think she knew anyone at the Institute well enough to make any enemies out of them, excepting maybe James Wright, but he died long before she did.”

Sasha doesn’t mean to be unhelpful for the woman, but she hadn’t liked Gertrude very much and had avoided her when she could—despite the fact that Gertrude seemed to have taken a liking to her. Gertrude Robinson had been just what Sasha said—cold. Ruthless. There was a sharpness to her, and an emptiness. (Not cruelty—it didn’t seem like she cared enough to be cruel.)

Sasha can’t say that she was surprised that Gertrude was murdered, but as for who could’ve done it? Who knows!

It wasn’t something that Sasha had time to be worrying about. Gunshot wounds are a very human way to die, and after Prentiss...

Sasha doesn’t have time to be worrying about human threats.

“Could you tell me about your coworkers, and Elias? Any interactions they might’ve had with Ms. Robinson?”

“Tim and Martin never even met her. I can guarantee that for you right now.”

The policewoman is just doing her job. She has to ask these questions, she’s just doing her job.

“As for Elias, I couldn’t say. He spends most of his time up in his office, doing scheduling and whatever else Heads of Institutes do. Occasionally he comes down to nag us about our recordings, but that’s about it.”

“Thank you. One more thing, if you don’t mind?”

“Go right ahead.”

“Well—I watched the, ah, the video of the attack on the Institute—“

“Really?” Sasha grins. “I didn’t know you guys watched What the Ghost.”

“I—well, admittedly it was partially for research on the case, but we do keep up with the channel. I think they’re entertaining, and my partner likes the white noise.” Basira seems faintly self-conscious, but quickly regains her composure with a clearing of her throat.

“In any case, just for the sake of wrapping everything up, did the woman formerly known as Jane Prentiss have anything to do with Gertrude or the Institute?”

“She gave a statement while Gertrude was Head Archivist, but nothing else,” Sasha shakes her head. “She has no actual affiliation here, as far as I know. We’re not even sure why she attacked.”

“I.. alright. That should be all, thank you.” Basira nods toward her, a gesture Sasha returns. She stands to gather her things—just a small recorder, and a notebook.

“Be good to my boys, yeah?” Sasha flashes Basira a small, half-smile. “They don’t deserve any of this mess.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you for your time.” Basira leaves, gently closing the door behind her.

Sasha slumps as soon as she’s gone. She looks to the tape recorder, still whirring—she’s sure she’d turned it off. Weird. She clicks the off button, and ejects the tape. Oh well.

Basira is the only officer who’s showed up so far, although she’s made vague references to her partner a few times. She seems nice enough, has a good appreciation for the Institute, handles archival documents with the proper care, all that. Mentioned she likes to read, and Sasha hopes to accost her for book recommendations soon.

She’s interrogating—no, questioning—Tim in another room. Tim is Tim, he’ll be fine. And Martin can charm the socks off of anyone, he’ll be fine.

...It’s just hard not to be worried.

Sasha’s listened to one of Gertrude’s tapes so far. It takes just as much out of her as recording a statement does, apparently, so she’s having to go slower than she’d like. It was a weird one, about a circus. (She should probably tell Tim about it. She hasn’t, but she should.)

It was disconcerting, to say the least, to hear a statement recorded by someone else. She could hear the change in Gertrude’s voice—the same shift in her own while she read, the same ferocity of emotion.

It’s good to know she hasn’t been imagining things, but it was still really weird.

All the more reason to keep going.

Chapter Text

The video opens on Jon, alone in the studio. He appears exasperated, but amused.

“Hello, everyone. Georgie is refusing to start recording because, quote, ‘the Admiral needs her.’ While normally I would be inclined to agree... we really, really need to go grocery shopping, and we can’t do that until this video is finished.” He folds his hands together on the table.

“Are you actually starting without me?” Georgie calls, her voice distant and barely caught by the mic. The Admiral yowls. Loudly.

“Yes, I am!” He shouts back, then turns back to the camera. “Welcome back to What the Ghost.”

“You suck!”

“Thank you!”

The intro plays through, and fades as Jon introduces: ”The Butcher’s Window.”

G: You’re awful. Terrible. The worst.

J: It worked, didn’t it?

G: Mmmmmmmmm I despise you.

J: [Audible smugness] Sure.

”Private Investigator Gregory Pryor—

G: Is this a detective story?

J: Kind of? A little bit more gruesome than Nancy Drew tends to get, however.

G: Nice!

J: Mr. Pryor certainly fancied himself a rough-around-the-edges P.I. who plays by his own rules.

G: But in reality...?

J: A washed-up cop.

G: Ah. Makes sense. I’m going to continue to imagine him as a cool detective in a trench coat, though.

J: With a magnifying glass and a fedora?

G: Obviously.

”—was hired by a woman that he did not name to go after a Mr. Laredo, who she suspected of cheating, and would rather get rid of. Pryor was supposed to catch the unfaithful husband in the act and bring the woman proof, so she could divorce him properly.

G: This really is, like, a cheap mystery novel or something. You see this at a petrol station and are like sure, why not, got a long car ride ahead of you.

J: And then regret it immensely?

G: Unless you have someone to make fun of it with.

J: Fair.

”Upon following and keeping tabs on Mr. Laredo for some time, Pryor discovered that instead of cheating—he seemed to have gotten involved with the Ukrainian mafia, running drugs.

G: Oh my word, now there’s even the mafia and drugs involved. It’s like we’re going down a checklist.

J: It was Mr. Laredo, in the parlor, with the candlestick.

G: Pfft!

”Mr. Laredo was not the most skilled of criminals. On what would end up being his final run, he managed to forget, and consequentially lose, the drugs.

G: [Cackling laughter]

J: [Faint, amused chuckle] It is rather incredible, isn’t it?

G: [Wheezing] How—why—never mind, I don’t want to know. Just. Just wow. Wow, sir.

J: ‘Oh no, I’m involved in shady drug business with the Ukrainian mafia that my life depends on. Drat! I’ve left the drugs!’

G: Is that a mood? Can I say that’s a mood?

J: Considering the sheer amount of running back and forth from our dorms we both did in uni... yes, I think so.

G: I will never feel panic like that again, I swear.

J: At least Oxford wasn’t involved with the Ukrainian mafia.

G: As far as we know, anyway.

J: Hm... suspicious.

G: Might bear looking into.

J: We could do an on-site investigation, disguised as a visit by alumni.

G: NOT CLICKBAIT: Our old university involved with the Ukrainian mafia?!

J: Ha!

”When Laredo arrived, sans the drugs, Pryor expected him to be done for right then and there. But instead, they gave him a slip of paper, and drove away.

G: It just says, ‘we’re very disappointed in you.’

J: ‘We believed in you. We thought you could do better. We were wrong.’

”Laredo threw the paper away as he left, letting Pryor see what it contained. It was an address in Stockwell, and an instruction: ask for Jared.

G: Jared is such an unassuming name, though.

J: You really don’t expect a horrific monster to be named Jared.

G: I’ve known, like, three Jareds! All of them have been jocks, though for widely differing sports.

J: That’s a significant amount of Jareds.

G: Tennis Jared, if you’re out there, I still owe you, like, two quid. Sorry!

”At first, Pryor claims to have denied wanting to follow Mr. Laredo to the address, and presumably his end. However, after being offered a considerable amount of money by his client, Pryor eventually agreed to acquire evidence that Laredo was truly dead.

G: Awful presumptuous of that woman. What if Jared was just a fun pal? A nice dude? A bud?

J: Do you really believe that?

G: No, but you never know.

”Upon arriving at the address, Pryor discovered it to be a butcher’s shop.

G: Another checkmark on the list.

J: I would hate to be an honest butcher. One that’s done absolutely nothing wrong.

G: Still a suspect in every murder case.

J: Exactly!

”When he entered the shop, it became clear that the butcher storefront was just that—a front. He went to the back room. He described it as looking something like a morgue. On the central table, covered in a plastic sheet, was Laredo... seemingly dead.

G: Seemingly?

J: Seemingly. As in, he certainly looked dead, but there was no obvious cause.

G: Suspicious!

J: Oh, very.

”After taking a few pictures as evidence, Pryor was about to leave, when someone entered the shop.

G: I feel like I need to insert the Jaws music here.

J: That would be terrifically accurate, yes.

”With no way out of the building, Pryor hid in one of the lockers, just barely able to see outside of the vents.

G: Those have got got be pretty big lockers, then. I’m not sure if I could fit in one.

J: These might be slightly bigger than secondary school gym lockers.

G: Point. But still.

”The man—presumably Jared, and presumably a man—is described by Pryor as being: ‘Immense, almost seven feet tall, with thick limbs that looked like they had been badly carved out of lumpy rock. His head was the same. It bulged slightly when he moved, hard bumps forming and stretching his skin in odd places.’

G: Can’t believe our newest horror villain is the Pillsbury Dough Boy.

J: Pryor is shaking in his locker and Jared is just, ‘you want a cinnamon roll?’

G: ‘My croissants turned out lovely today! Oh, what’s that? Oh that’s just a corpse, ignore him—he’s in a bit of a mood. Anyway, croissants.’

”Pryor claims he reached into Laredo, and agonizingly slowly—began to pull out his bones. Laredo was now discovered to be very much not dead, and screamed for hours.

G: Oh, I just had a horrible thought. I’m an awful person.

J: Well now you have to say it.

G: No! I don’t want to! It’s terrible!

J: Mmmmm... nope. You have to.

G: Ugh. I don’t—

J: You’re required. By law.

G: Fine! Do you think—you know how when you get the Pillsbury cinnamon rolls and such, you have to press the spoon to the seal to pop open the container? Do you think—do you think that’s how he opened up Laredo to get the bones?

J: [Sudden, wheezing laughter]

G: I TOLD YOU IT WAS HORRIBLE!

J: [Continued laughter]

G: I’ll never forgive myself for this.

”He took the bones, and twisted them in odd shapes, or braided them together. At one point, he pulled up on of the tiles on the floor—revealing a deep, glistening wet hole, surrounded by teeth. Jared would either feed it the bones, or press them into his own flesh.

G: I know that the floor mouth hole is supposed to be terrifying, but really, all I can think of is the space worm from Star Wars.

J: A few tiny mynocks fly out.

G: A tiny Millennium Falcon eventually makes its escape, and knocks into Jared as it prepares the hyperdrive for lightspeed.

J: Pryor didn’t include it in his account because he didn’t think it was relevant, but rest assured, that did happen.

”This went on for four hours, until Laredo finally died. Jared sighed in what looked like disappointment, and dismembered the corpse to feed to the hole. Eventually, he sat down and seemed to fall asleep.

G: ‘What a long day of pulling and twisting bones, and dismembering corpses. Sure hope no one’s hiding in those lockers!’

J: For all his terror-inducing stature and abilities, I get the sense that Jared isn’t the brightest bulb in the box.

”Pryor, desperate to escape, nearly made it out—until an ambulance, siren blasting, flew past the door as he opened it.

G: That is rotten luck.

J: This man has never won a card game in his life with that kind of luck.

”Jared charged towards him. Pryor was too slow to shut the door in front of him, and Jared grabbed his arm as he tried to run—pulling out the bones in his arm. He claims it was the worst pain he’s ever felt.

G: On one hand, oh geez oh no that’s awful. On the other hand, do you think it was an accident on Jared’s part?

J: What do you mean?

G: Like, he meant to pull Pryor back inside completely, but instead he accidentally pulled out his bones, and was like ‘aw, dangit.’

J: Actually. I would not be at all surprised if that was the case.

G: It’s alright Jared, you’ll get ‘em next time.

J: I sure hope not.

”Pryor managed to slam the door shut and run out into the street, making a successful escape.”

The camera returns to Georgie and Jon at their studio table.

“Pryor did need to get the arm amputated, but other than that, he seems to be doing fine. He did go to jail for tax evasion, but that seems to be unrelated.” Jon shuffles a few papers over to Georgie, who hums thoughtfully.

“He also called the police on the place, but the records are under heavy lock and key, like most of these accounts. There was no sign of Jared, but I think we can assume that the butcher shop will not be feeding any more mouth holes.”

“That’s good, at least. Anything else?” Georgie slides the papers off of the end of the table, where they flutter to the ground.

“Kind of.” Jon gives Georgie a small, sly smile. “I had a bit of a feeling about this Jared fellow, and I asked Sasha if she knew anything about him.”

“Oho! Wait, wait, I can sound like the kids. Spill the tea, Jon.”

He shoots her a deadpan glare, and she happily smiles in return.

“Please, never speak again. Anyway.” He huffs. “This Jared is most likely one Jared Hopworth, who has a few recurring appearances in statements—including one where he found a Leitner called ‘The Boneturner’s Tale.’ And proceeded to do all sorts of gruesome acts with it, of course.”

“Well what do you know!” Georgie claps her hands. “That’s some information right there!”

“Certainly more than we can usually find. In any case, Jared Hopworth is still very much at large, and we should probably hope that he does not find out where we live if he sees that we’ve made this video.”

Georgie pokes him in the shoulder, a gesture Jon happily returns.

“Are you saying that we’re now in danger from the Pillsbury Dough Boy?”

“I wasn’t saying it, more implying it, but maybe!”

“I’ll make sure to tell the Admiral to watch out for him.”

“Ah yes, what an incredibly reliable watchcat he would make.” Jon raises a brow, and Georgie playfully swats at him.

“Don’t be mean to the boy! He’s in the military, he knows what he’s doing!”

“Sure, sure.”

“You’re impossible,” she laughs. “I think that’s all for today, folks. Make sure to like, comment, and subscribe to keep our bones from being turned by the Pillsbury Dough Boy!”

“Donate to our Patreon for bloopers, the Admiral, and more.”

“Don’t forget to follow our Instagram, @what_the_ghost! See ya!” Georgie waves.

The camera clicks off, and transitions to the outro.

—————

“Hey—uh, Sash,” Tim doesn’t bother knocking on her office door. He gestures behind him, a helpless expression on his face. “There’s a woman, here? Asking for you? Wants to do a statement, I think.”

“Um...” Sasha winces. “Not... not—well, actually no. I can’t.”

“Whyyyyy not? She’s like—really, really frantic about a door of some kind, sounds a lot like our favorite Michael.” He leans against the doorway, his hands in his pockets. Not quite concerned, but almost.

“I don’t... I don’t want to take any more live statements, at the moment,” Sasha says, slow and deliberate.

In all honesty, she really, really wants to talk to this woman. Especially now that Tim’s mentioned Michael. But... she has her reasons. Ones she’s not too inclined to share, not yet.

(Although by look of it, Tim’s going to drag it out of her sooner rather than later.)

“You sure?”

“I’m... I’m sure, yes. Absolutely.”

“Don’t sound it.” He quirks a brow, questioning and teasing all at once.

“I am!” Sasha lets a bit of a laugh slip into her retort.

“Alright, alright, I’ll tell her to go.” He turns to leave with a dramatic reluctance.

“Make sure she double-checks any doors she sees from now on,” Sasha calls after him. “Just in case.”

“Will do!”

It won’t be long until he’s back. Sasha hasn’t shown any hesitance to take live statements before, but that was before Prentiss, before...

Well. Before the archives became something more than they should have been.

Sasha knows that it’s Tim outside her door again the second that she hears footsteps.

“What was that about, boss?” The teasing tone is still lacing his words, but that’s for her benefit more than his.

“Can you get Martin? It’s not anything big, I think, but it’s probably better if I talk to you both about it.” She smiles, because it really isn’t a big deal. It could be, but it isn’t. Not right now. Not yet.

“Sure thing.”

Once both Tim and Martin are gathered in her office, in various states of nervousness, Sasha lets herself breathe.

“I’ve decided that I’m not going to be taking any more live statements. At all. Anyone who shows up at the archives is to be turned away, or sent to research in a worst-case scenario.”

“That doesn’t make sense, though.” Tim crosses his arms. Confusion and concern are still flitting across his face in turns. “We need information, right? No matter how spooky the archives are, we need what those statement givers are getting us.”

“Are the archives doing something to them?” Martin asks, catching on to Sasha’s expression.

“Not exactly,” she says, careful, “but maybe. In general, I would like to keep strangers away from the archives. We don’t know who’s another Prentiss, and who isn’t.”

“Prentiss was really very obvious though,” Martin frowns.

“She didn’t have to be,” Tim says. “She certainly wasn’t at first, and whatever the—the supernatural is, it’s...” he drags a hand through his hair, “definitely not always obvious.”

“Better safe than sorry,” Sasha’s voice is quiet. Both of her assistants nod their own agreement.

This is a bad idea.

But keeping it a secret is a worse idea.

Right?

“There’s something else.” This, she says quickly, before she can regret it. “And it’s going to sound weird.”

“Like this isn’t already weird?” Tim grins at her, lopsided and fond. She reaches over to push at his shoulder, and roll her eyes in tandem and commiseration with Martin.

“Okay, yeah, but really. So. Ah—um—a few things. At this point, we completely disregard statements that don’t record on a laptop, right? We really only record the ones that are picky enough to need the tape recorder. The ‘real ones.’”

Tim and Martin both nod, clearly unsure of where this is going.

“Have you noticed something about them? Not just the stories, but the statements themselves. And—and—“ she needs to get this out now, this thing that’s been pressing against her since she took the promotion and came to the archives, that only seems to be getting worse.

“Watched,” Martin whispers suddenly, almost disbelieving. “I always feel like I’m being watched, here. The statements... when I’m holding one, reading one, it gets worse.”

“Yeah,” Sasha exhales. “Yes. When I’m recording a statement—I can—I can feel it watching. More than that,” she’s nearly breathless now, “more than that, I keep—I keep on losing myself to the statements. You’ve listened to the tapes, I—I don’t feel like me, while I do them. I’m—I’m scared, I’m terrified, but it’s not my terror.”

“I thought it was... dramatics, something Elias asked you to do,” Tim murmurs. “Does it get worse with the live statements?”

“The watching does, yeah. And, also... I’ve been kind of... sort of... having nightmares about them.” She winces.

“The statements?” Martin looks surprised. “I mean, I guess that makes sense, they’re—they’re a lot to handle at the best of times—“

“Just the live ones,” Sasha says. “The two live statements we’ve taken so far have been from Naomi Herne, #0161301, and Dr. Lionel Elliot, #0161207.”

She takes a deep breath. Tim and Martin are looking at her attentively, but they’re not watching.

“I thought it was, y’know, just me being—spooked, I guess. Ms. Herne and Dr. Elliot were both extremely upset, and shaken, and I thought that maybe I let that get to me. But they haven’t gone away.” She breathes. “Every night, the same two nightmares. But I still thought it was just—I don’t know, the stress of the job? But they... they could see me. They looked at me. Talked to me. And then they started begging me to let them go, free them from this, let them sleep. Like I was their jailer, or—or something.”

Tim reaches over and tentatively sets his hand over her own. Her hands aren’t shaking, not yet. Not yet. She still lets him do it. It’s still grounding, comforting.

“I can never move. I can’t speak, either. I can only watch as they relive their terror. Scream at me. Ask me why I’m doing this, why I want them to suffer.”

“Oh, Sasha,” Martin breathes. “You should have told us. We—we could’ve helped.”

“It’s not your fault. You know it’s not your fault, right?” Tim squeezes her hand.

“I wasn’t sure, I wanted to be sure—and it’s... mostly not my fault. But I think I’m still trapping them there, in those nightmares.”

“You’re not,” Tim is quiet, but insistent. “It’s this place. Not you.”

“I hope so,” Sasha sighs.

“The tunnels,” Martin says, sudden in the quiet that had blanketed the room. “You always know where to go.”

“I don’t know why,” she says.

“But Jon knew, too,” Tim frowns. “He found the trapdoor.”

“He did. We talked about it... briefly, but neither of us know what’s going on, and he doesn’t use statements for his research. We just... don’t know.” Ultimately, Sasha just shrugs. She hates not knowing, but it feels like there’s nothing to be done—not for this. Not yet.

“Well,” Tim stands, pulling Sasha up with him, “We are here for you. Always. You got that, Sash?”

“I do.”

“You’d better,” Martin finally smiles, “or that’s a lot of tea I’ve made for nothing. And I mean a lot.”

“I get it, I get it. I’ll keep you all updated on the spookiness from now on.”

“I’ll wring it out of you one way or another,” Tim winks. Sasha pulls her hand out of his and rolls her eyes, fondness coating every motion.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Tim puts his arms around both her and Martin. “I’m done with work.”

“I could fire you for that on grounds of insubordination, you know.”

“I’m not finished with my report,” Martin tries to duck out from under Tim’s arm, but fails.

“You won’t because you love me too much, and you can finish it later because I said so.” Tim proceeds to bodily drag them both out of Sasha’s office.

—————

There’s a new Instagram post from @what_the_ghost. Tim, Sasha, Jon, and Martin are sitting in a circle on the floor of an unfamiliar flat. Georgie appears to be the photographer, also part of the circle. They’re playing Uno, and everyone is wearing expressions of extreme concentration—except for Tim, who is smirking evilly. The caption reads: “uno gets intense...” @martinkblackwood, @timthestoked, and @sashjjjjjj are tagged in the photo.

Chapter Text

“Bonjour, my lovely friends!” Georgie gestured broadly. The Admiral is sitting on her head, barely balanced. “I’m Georgie Barker—“

Jon looks Georgie up and down, sighs, and continues ”—and I’m Jonathan Sims—“

“—and Welcome back to What the Ghost!” Georgie lifts the Admiral off of her head and throws him over the table and onto the floor.

“Be careful with him!” Jon hisses.

“He’s perfectly fine. I bet he loved it.” Georgie crosses her arms and smirks.

“You scared him to death is what you did, look at him!” Jon gestures towards what is presumably the Admiral offscreen.

“He had lots of fun. Didn’t you, baby boy?”

The Admiral’s answering yowl does not sound pleased.

“Poor thing,” Jon mutters.

The intro plays through, and as the music fades, Jon introduces: ”Still Life.”

J: This one’s a little more abstract than we’re used to.

G: Really? Because from the title, I was under the impression it would be closer to the 16th-century Renaissance than abstract, but alright.

J: Are you still bitter about that Art History class?

G: Yes!

”Alexander Scaplehorn—

G: Far be it from me to judge someone’s name, but...

J: But you’re going to anyway?

G: Yep. Scaplehorn? What even is a scaple?

J: I’ll look it up, hold on.

G: Oooooo, yes. Forgot about google.

J: It’s the name of a lost medieval village, which vanished due to land issues like erosion, plague, and war. Typical for the Middle Ages. Umm... yeah, here. ‘Scaple’ comes from ‘sceap’ which means sheep, and ‘horn’ comes from ‘holme’ which comes from ‘holmr,’ meaning a small island in fenland.

G: Neat!

J: Quite. Apparently, quite a few surnames have origins in vanished medieval villages, as the only real record those villages ever existed.

G: A little spooky—

J: [Sigh]

G: —but I love it.

”—is an investigator for Inland Revenue, specializing in money laundering, a subject which he is extremely passionate about.

J: I had to dig through so much excess information on money laundering to get to the actual account. So much. I know I’m one to talk, but still.

G: At least he’s found something he’s passionate about?

J: So much, Georgie. The sheer amount of acronyms that anti-money laundering practices use is incredible, but in a way that’s entirely overwhelming.

G: I did not realize it was that serious of a problem.

J: Well, according to Mr. Scaplehorn here, around six billion pounds get laundered per year, at the lowest estimate!

G: What’s the highest estimate?

J: One and a half trillion!

G: Goodness!

”In mid-2013, he arrived at The Trophy Room—a thirty-year-old taxidermy shop in Barnet, owned by one Daniel Rawlings, who’d recently inherited it.

G: Is this going to end up like a horror movie version of Toy Story?

J: Take away all the heartbreaking nostalgia and messages about friendship, and Toy Story is a horror movie.

G: Touché.

J: But to answer the question... kind of, not really.

G: Mm. Interesting.

”Mr. Scaplehorn described the entire shop as very disconcerting. Rawlings also refused to make eye contact, but was otherwise very accommodating, letting Scaplehorn go through his spiel and then look through the records.

G: Disconcerting in an all-taxidermy-is-usually-off-putting way or a something-is-supernaturally-wrong way?

J: You already know the answer to that.

”The taxidermy in the back room was distinctly different from the rest, in that they were quite exotic, and appeared very ancient. They were equally, if not more disconcerting than the ones in front.

J: One of them was a rabbit in a waistcoat, reminiscent of Alice in Wonderland.

G: I love that, actually.

J: Not the way Mr. Scaplehorn described it. But outside of the context of a creepy taxidermy shop, it does sound much nicer.

G: I always loved the White Rabbit. He’s late! He’s late! For a very important date!

J: I’m rather fond of Alice in Wonderland myself. It’s of the few Disney movies I actually watched as a child.

G: You also get Alice as the answer for every ‘what Disney character are you’ quiz I’ve ever sent you.

J: It does seem to be a recurring pattern, doesn’t it?

G: I can’t even get a single princess to show up twice, but you always get Alice! Every single time!

J: Except for the one quiz that gave me Belle. You didn’t give up on those puns for weeks.

G: Beasts me how you didn’t like them.

J: Good Lord.

”The shop was closing by the time that Mr. Scaplehorn was nearly finished, and Rawlings came in to check on him. After some brief small talk about the records, Rawlings suddenly laughed, and asked Scaplehorn if he knew how honored he was—and claimed that he was among some of the oldest skin in the world.

G: You’d think the ‘oldest skin in the world’ would be in a museum, or something like that. Y’know, somewhere where it would be properly preserved?

J: It does sound terrifically harmful to leave it just laying open in a back room.

G: I don’t care what kind of Toy Story freak this taxidermy guy is, he needs to take better care of his ancient skins!

”Scaplehorn was about ready to leave when a pair of excessively Cockney delivery men arrived. Rawlings excused himself and went to talk to them, leaving Scaplehorn alone in the back room.

J: I‘m certain we’ve talked about those guys before.

G: Who? The delivery men?

J: Yes. Delivery men at an apparently supernatural location, described as having Cockney accents that are frankly excessive and often obnoxious. It’s very familiar.

G: Hm... you’d think we would’ve noticed them, but maybe. We do a lot of videos.

J: Breekon and Hope! That’s it, Breekon and Hope.

G: Still doesn’t ring a bell, but you’re the researcher more than I am.

J: I’m fairly sure that we’ve at least... mentioned them, once or twice.

”Scaplehorn began to gather his things when he heard something that sounded like... muffled words, from beneath the floor. When he looked, he saw something he hadn’t noticed earlier—a small basement trapdoor.

G: Trapdoors are never a good sign.

J: I’ve had personal experience with exactly one trapdoor, and I never want to see one again.

”Despite his trepidations, he opened it.

G: Idiot. Dingus. Fool of a Took.

J: I certainly can’t deny it.

”Mr. Scaplehorn described a flight of stairs descending into a darkened basement, and just barely illuminated... a face. Pale, swaying from side to side. It stared up at him, and said ‘We’ve got one down here. Come on, I’ll show you.’ It kept on repeating the phrase, in a flat, mechanical voice.

G: You know what THAT freaky sucker reminds me of?

J: What? Oh! Oh! Oh, yes! The, the ah,

G: THE ANGLERFISH THING!

J: Yes! I don’t know what on Earth the drunk anglerfish has to do with taxidermy, but yes!

G: We’re connecting the dots! The red strings! Taxidermy and deep water fish... cigarettes and skin... the mystery deepens!

J: It most certainly does.

”Mr. Scaplehorn ran out of the back room, intent on making his escape. In the doorway stood Rawlings—finally looking him in the eyes. With the same glass eyes that filled every taxidermy creature surrounding him. They all began to move towards him, but Scaplehorn tackled Rawlings and sprinted out the open doorway, making a successful escape.

G: WOOHOO!!! I didn’t think he had it in him!

J: It was something of an impressive escape.

G: Amazing how many of these supernatural encounters are beaten by just plain brute force.

J: Honestly, though.

The camera returns to the duo at their studio table.

“I have the unfortunate honor of saying that The Trophy Room is still very much open for business,” Jon says. Georgie scrunches her nose in a frown.

“That’s not good. Probably.”

“As for research into Rawlings himself, there was a Daniel Rawlings who disappeared from Edinburgh in 2006—along with the other victims of the supposed ‘Anglerfish.’”

“So I was RIGHT!” Georgie breathes a laugh and claps her hands, seeming excited, but also quite wary of the conclusions they’re coming to.

“It seems so,” Jon slides his phone over to her, open to a picture. A side-by-side comparison of two men is edited into the video. “However, the Daniel Rawlings of the Trophy Room looks nothing like the Daniel Rawlings who vanished—excepting, weirdly, the hair. I couldn’t find any polaroids of the original Rawlings though, so we’re unclear on that front.”

“That’s super weird,” Georgie slides his phone back. “What do you think of the taxidermy part of it though? I’m not sure what—“

Behind them, the door in the back of their studio creaks open.

...Wait.

There’s no door there.

Right?

Yeah, definitely not.

“Hello YouTube,” says the thing as it steps out of the definitely-not-there-before yellow door. Its curly blond hair falls from its shoulders, dizzying. “Oh, this is lovely. I’ve always wanted to make my internet debut.”

The video crackles and glitches, staticky—the recording seems to be trying it’s very best to give out, but something won’t let it. It flickers, desperate.

The camera pointedly refocuses into startling clarity.

Jon whips around to face the... it.

“You! You’re the Michael-thing Sasha talked about, aren’t you?”

“I’m neither Michael, nor a ‘thing,’ but yes, I am Michael,” it—he?—grins, everything stretching too wide.

“What do you want?” Jon grips the edge of the table. The recording tries to flicker into static again, but fails.

“Why, to be on YouTube of course, Ar—“ it pauses, seemingly thoughtful—and cocks its head. The the movement is headache-inducing. It steps forward, closer to Jon, bending down to look at him. Jon leans back, blinking hard.

Georgie scoots her chair closer, and grips Jon’s shoulder—glaring daggers at Michael.

“No... you’re not an Archivist at all, are you? Similar enough, I suppose, but—mmm, no. You’re something else.” It laughs, and the video tries to give out once more, and again the camera won’t let it. Georgie cringes, but doesn’t look away, her grip on Jon tightening. Jon himself is halfway to frozen as Michael leans closer still, but he reaches back to grab Georgie’s hand.

Michael reaches out with a long—oh, it’s too long, too sharp, jointed and segmented in all the wrong places—finger, and pokes Jon in the shoulder.

“I don’t know what you are, but I know it’s going to be exciting.”

Jon gasps. “I—what—ow, what the hell—“

“Did you just stab Jon? Jon, did he just stab you?” Georgie looks more incredulous than wary, now. She stands, and pulls Jon up with her—sparing him a concerned glance as he winces, before harshening her gaze again to menacingly stare Michael down.

“Come on Jon, let’s go,” she says between gritted teeth. Michael laughs again, the sound echoing and sharp-edged, but Georgie doesn’t even bother cringing this time.

“It’s not really that bad,” Jon tries to say, but Georgie just mutters “oh, shut it,” and drags him out of the room.

“That was lots of fun! We should do it again sometime.” Its grin somehow stretches even wider, and it’s dizzying.

When there’s no response from outside, it shrugs.

“I think that’s all, everyone. Hm... how does it go... oh yes!” The static is finally starting to overtake the screen.

“Remember to like, comment and subscribe to keep... well, the Not-Quite-Archivist from bleeding too much.” The video is completely indecipherable as he laughs, faintly emitting a high-pitched sound, before struggling back into focus. “Donate to their Patreon for more things... and follow their Instagram! I’m sure I won’t be featured though, sorry to disappoint.”

The video is barely hanging on. The high-pitched sound is back, and it is increasing in volume, warping with the harsh white sound of static and glitching.

“See you!”

As it laughs, one more time, the video finally gives out.

—————

Comments 13k

Pinned by What the Ghost!
What the Ghost!
PLEASE STOP PANICKING, I’M FINE

#1 The Admiral Fan
WHAT THE FRICK FRACK DIDDLY DACK

ashley b
uuuuuuuuuhhhhhh are you guys okay????

jimbo mingus
PLS SAY SIKE

trash gremlin the Third
ok but,,,,,,, new cryptid anyone

bungled jungle
man door hand hook car door

ben pringles
aksnkadbksndks this is why im glad I don’t live in england

chaos incarnate
BEAT ITS ASS GEORGIE

YeetoNeato
I have literally never had a worse headache in my LIFE how are y’all alive

birdie lee
love how jon’s reaction was, essentially, ‘bruh.’ the worms rlly did a number on his sense of danger huh

NerdSupreme53
mister door man,,,,, door me a door

—————

“Hey Georgie, what’s up?”

They’re in the break room for lunch. Martin had been in the middle of enduring some of Tim’s usual teasing affair when Sasha had gotten the call.

“Tell her we say hi!” Tim whispers. Sasha shushes him.

“Wait, what?” Sasha frowns, smile suddenly wiped away. “He—he did what?”

“What’s going on?” Tim mouths. Sasha shakes her head. He exchanges a bemused glance with Martin.

Martin’s mostly just confused, and slightly concerned—Georgie usually texts, so this has to be important, and Sasha looks quite worried now. He can’t really hear Georgie’s voice through the phone, but what he does catch sounds pretty upset.

“Holy—is he okay?” Sasha gasps.

Tim and Martin exchange another glance—definitely worried, this time.

“Yeah, alright. We... probably could run over? Actually, screw Elias, we’ll be right there. Mhmm. Yeah, of course! See you in a bit.” Sasha shoves her phone into her pocket.

“What’s going on? What happened?” Tim demands.

“Are they okay?” Martin joins in.

“Our friend Michael showed up and decided to get stabby,” Sasha answers absently, rushing towards her office. “Get your stuff, we’re going over to make sure they’re alright.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Tim practically skids over time his desk.

“I—what? Why’d he do that?” Martin half-shouts as he grabs his own stuff. On second thought—he also grabs his rather intricate first-aid kit. Just in case.

“Who knows!” Sasha shouts back, barreling out the archives door. Tim and Martin scurry after her.

—————

There’s a new Instagram story posted by @what_the_ghost. It’s a picture of a sheet of notebook paper. Written on it in scrawling (Tim’s) handwriting, is:

HOW TO SAVE WTG FROM HANDSY MIKE
1. Give him a hair straightener
2. Shatter his (its?) hand bones
3. Remove his hand bones (a la Jared Boneman)
4. Put a child safety lock on his doorknob
5. Paint his door black
6. Release The Melanie (last resort)
7. Make Tim describe and explain the importance of fonts, very slowly
8. Trigger one of Jon’s rants in front of him
9. Pretend he doesn’t exist and ignore him completely whenever he appears
10. Shout ‘YOU SHALL NOT PASS’ at top volume and barricade his door

The picture is surrounded by sparkle-effect stickers.

Chapter Text

sashayyy: so that’s some more for the spooky jar huh

wtJon: Do we have a spooky jar? I didn’t know we got a spooky jar

sashayyy: we don’t have one but we should absolutely get one

wtJon: If you say so

sashayyy: I do say so !

sashayyy: in any case. two more spookies on your part: whatever ‘not-quite-archivist’ means, and whatever you did with the camera. also getting stabbed by michael, but that’s less you and more ‘wtf michael why.’

sashayyy: speaking of which. you still good ?

wtJon: Oh fine. Martin’s first aid kit is very impressive, and it’s been a bit anyway

wtJon: Pretty sure if Michael shows his face here again, the sheer force of Georgie’s fury will be enough to save us both

wtJon: Along with the other protective measures, of course

sashayyy: I support her !!!

sashayyy: in other news, I have something you might be interested in

wtJon: Oh? Do tell

sashayyy: just dug up a statement on Hill Top Road

sashayyy: from one of the kids that actually stayed there !!!

wtJon: Wait really???

sashayyy: yes !!! are you two ready to be even more confused abt that place than you already were ???

wtJon: Absolutely

—————

“Hello, hallo, hullo, and heyo! I’m Georgie Barker—“

”—and I’m Jonathan Sims—“

“—and Jon has been extremely cruel. Absolutely terrible. The completely and utter worst—“ Jon has to duck under one of Georgie’s flailing arms, hiding a laugh behind his hand.

“She’s just bitter I haven’t told her what this one’s about yet.”

“He’s being cryptic and it’s absolutely ridiculous.” Georgie huffs and crosses her arms.

“Nonsense,” Jon says, but he’s betrayed by his own smug smile. Georgie swats at his shoulder.

“He spends forever mysteriously texting Sasha, tells me he has our next video topic, and that I’ll be ‘really excited’ for it,” Georgie gestures incredulously. “Am I supposed to not what to know what on Earth he’s talking about?”

“Well—“

“—And then he proceeds to work and do nothing else for the rest of the day. And night!”

“I didn’t know what time it was!” Jon throws up his hands in surrender.

“You didn’t know what time it was all night?” Georgie’s expression is utterly incredulous.

“I mean... yes, that’s sort of how that works.”

“Idiot,” she reaches over to flick his forehead. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on, now?”

“I don’t know. I was going to, but now that you’ve made such a big fuss—“

”Jon!”

“Fine, fine! We are...”

Georgie starts drumming on the table with her hands, replicating a drumroll.

“...revisiting our favorite house on Hill Top Road.”

“No way!” Georgie abruptly stops drumming and whips around to face Jon, who looks just as excited as she does.

“Sasha knew we’d already done a video on it, and while she was doing... whatever an archivist does, she found some more information and thought we might be interested.”

“Of course we’re interested. Thanks Sash, wherever you are right now!”

“I mean, we could just tell her.” Jon holds up his phone.

“No, this is more fun. Also, you still suck.”

“I wanted to surprise you!”

“And you did! I’m very happy about it! But you still suck!”

“I’m confused!”

“Good! And now, without further ado—because I’d really like to get to this one—welcome back to What the Ghost!”

The intro plays through, until Jon’s Narrator Voice filters over the music, introducing: ”Recluse.”

G: [Whispered] Haunted house! Haunted house! Hau—

J: Nope. It’s not haunted yet in this one.

G: Yet!

”Ronald Sinclair spent three years at Raymond Fielding’s halfway house on Hill Top Road—years he describes as ‘dreadful.’

G: Now that’s already different from what we’ve heard. We were told that Mr. Fielding was a perfectly nice and respectable man.

J: Apparently, not the case.

G: I’m invested! Go on.

”As a teenager, Sinclair confesses to being rather badly-behaved, with an unfortunate home life. He was moved from place to place by the system until he was 15, when he was offered a place at the halfway house on Hill Top Road.

J: He couldn’t find any paperwork or records on the house, either.

G: And he lived there!

”At first, Sinclair found Fielding to be just as friendly as everyone else, although he was wary of him for reasons he couldn’t quite describe.

G: The feeling of something being just barely ‘off’ seems to be very common in these types of accounts.

J: I always think it’s such a clumsy way of putting it, but there’s really no other way to describe the... ‘off’-ness.

G: No obvious fangs, fur, multiple limbs, antennae—just something that’s not quite right.

J: Mm. Unsettling.

G: Quite!

”No alumni ever seemed to return, either to visit or cause trouble. But what was incredibly strange was how Sinclair described the way that the house... dulled him, and his troubled teen rage.

G: Dulled as in like, intelligence, or ferocity?

J: Ferocity, but it would be much more hilarious if the house on Hill Top Road just slowly made you an idiot.

G: ‘I’ve been living here for uhhhhhh about five years now, and I gotta say. I don’t think I can count to ten. It’s been a while.’

J: ‘My ABCs? Oh, you must mean the soup Mr. Fielding keeps in the pantry!’

G: ‘Isn’t he such a good, kind gentleman? By the way, how many shapes are there in the alphabet? I’ve forgotten, golly!’

J: ‘Gee willikers Mr. Fielding! The sun has vanished again!’

G: ‘Gee whiz! Where has it gone, the darn thing?’

J: ...How did we become English Robin, though? Where did that come from?

G: ‘Holy weird character voice choices, Batman!’

J: Are we implying that one of the Robins was an orphan at Hill Top Road before being picked up by Batman? Is that what we’re going for?

G: Crossover time!

J: I’m actually shocked that there hasn’t been a Batman horror film yet.

G: C’mon, DC! Let’s get on it! The Wayne Mansion is absolutely haunted.

J: It’s got a cave full of bats and an underground river in its basement, not to mention the gruesome deaths of the Waynes, and all the other Gotham conspiracies. Even I can’t deny that it’s haunted.

G: Batman and all of the Robins and former Robins are running around like it’s a Scream movie, but Alfred is just dusting. This is a Tuesday for him.

J: Catwoman appears for exactly one scene and then leaves. Probably steals a bunch of thematically-appropriate chainsaws.

G: The Joker tries to show up and cause trouble, but has to come to the unfortunate realization that there’s no more trouble to be caused.

J: We’ve gotten so incredibly off-track.

G: This is what happens when both of us are running on like, three hours of sleep. If that. Just one brain cell bouncing back and forth between us.

J: Trying its very best.

”Sinclair describes his recollection of his time at the house as, quote, ‘almost like [he’s] watching someone else’s memories.’ He remembers that he would sometimes do things by muscle memory, or as if guided, without ever really deciding to do them—things he wouldn’t normally have done at the time, such as brushing his teeth. He claims the other teenagers were the same, just as dull.

G: That sounds like mind control, right? I’m not insane?

J: Definitely some form of mental influence.

G: Okay, okay, so—we have ghosts, bleeding trees, spider boxes, fires, and now mind control?

J: Quite the epicenter for the paranormal.

G: That’s certainly one way to put it! Oh, and are you telling me. That—presumably—Raymond Fielding has mind control powers. And he uses them to make kids brush their teeth?

J: Yes.

G: Lovely. Just clearing that up.

”Fielding rarely left the house, as he was rather reclusive, and was content to leave the teenagers to their own devices.

G: Bad idea. Teenagers are insane.

J: Could you imagine a house full of teenagers left to their own devices?

G: I’m shocked there was a house left. Until it burned down, of course.

”He only required them to do two things: first, go to church on Sundays. Second: They would all gather for a Sunday evening meal. Before they sat down to eat, Fielding would remove the tablecloth from the dining room table, and they would sit around it... for an undetermined amount of time.

G: Is that what I think it is?

”Sinclair describes the table as carved in mesmerizing patterns, with a small, square box in the center.

G: IT IS! It’s the hypno-table!

J: It sure is!

G: That kind of explains why the tree had the box underneath it! The house had the table! Doesn’t explain how Graham Folger got it, or what it has to do with the many-limbed creature of replacement, but!

J: It is one more piece of the puzzle!

G: Yes! Exactly!

Both: [Audible high five. Both of them hiss in pain afterwards, and laugh]

”Agnes arrived two months before Sinclair’s eighteenth birthday, when he would leave the halfway house. She was never introduced or mentioned by Fielding—she just appeared one day. Sinclair describes her as ten or eleven, younger than the teenagers that lived at the house—and a bit off-putting, but Sinclair never really questioned it.

G: Ah, yes. Agnes probably-Montague. There’s that description of ‘off’ again.

J: Somehow, I’m starting to think that ‘off’ is an understatement for Hill Top Road.

G: Yeeeaaahhh, just a bit.

”Fielding seemed afraid of her, and would refuse to be in the same room as her. Agnes herself kept mostly separate from the house’s other occupants.

G: Children can be freaky, I get why Fielding is afraid.

J: Yeah, but this is also the man with mind control.

G: Good point! She is like little baby compared to him!

J: ...Maybe. We don’t actually know what Agnes is capable of.

G: [Sigh] I’m trying to make properly entertaining commentary, Jonathan!

J: And I’m trying to ensure our audience is properly informed, Georgina!

”Sinclair reports that he doesn’t know much else about Agnes. But, on his eighteenth birthday—as he was about to be cut loose from the halfway house—she was there watching. Just before he left, Agnes beckoned him him close. She kissed him on the cheek, and then ran away down the hall.

G: I mean. Aww?

J: No comment on my part. There are... occurrences.

G: Well then, let’s keep going!

”Sinclair left, walked down to the end of the road, and waited for the car to come pick him up. Until—he wasn’t, anymore. He was walking back to the house. Whether he wanted to or not.

G: Miiiind controoool!

J: Slightly more nuanced than that, but—

G: Mind control!

J: —Yes.

”He walked through the unlocked door and the quiet house down to the basement doubling as Fielding’s study—where no one but Fielding himself had ever been. The stairwell was coated in cobwebs.

G: Ohoho, we’ve really arrived at spooky-town now.

J: Why must you speak?

G: I exist to torture you specifically.

”At the bottom of the stairs was a large, nearly empty room, strung with cobwebs. In the center was the hypnotizing table. Around the edges of the room were large, thick, bulbous clumps of webbing—just barely recognizable the older teenagers, the ones who had supposedly ‘left’ when they turned eighteen.

G: As genuinely spooky as this is, isn’t this what every fictional spider does? Like, in every video game with a giant spider, there’s people caught in webbing.

J: [Eugh] Pretty sure it happened to Frodo, too.

G: Not sure I can smash that big of a spider for you, I’m afraid.

J: Well I’m not going to be able to do it!

G: Mm, fair, I guess.

J: As... poetically ironic as it would be, or whatever, I do not want us to get murdered by a giant spider. Please.

G: I don’t wear a big enough shoe size!

J: You’d figure it out. I have a lot of faith in your giant-spider-killing ability.

G: Why, thank you!

”In a chair at the table was Raymond Fielding, looking just as friendly as ever. Sinclair, without a choice in the matter, reached over and pulled out the wooden box from the center. He opened it—and inside was a fresh, green apple.

G: Just like when the construction guy did it!

J: No hordes of tiny spiders, this time. Thankfully.

”He knew he was going to eat it, despite his desperation not to. He reached into the box, and picked up the apple. Suddenly—Sinclair describes his cheek erupting in a burning, fiery pain, as though he were being branded. He fell to his knees, screaming, despite there being no injury on his face. And just like that... he was free, moving of his own accord. When Fielding stood, Sinclair ran, and never returned.”

G: Agnes! Have we been misjudging this poor girl the whole time?

J: Apparently so.

G: I thought she was going to be a creepy spider child! But she saved this guy! Somehow!

J: I have to wonder if the fact that Sinclair described the pain as ‘burning’ has anything to do with the fact that the house burned down.

G: Go Agnes! Arson is okay if it kills awful mind-controlling spider men!

J: I can’t disagree.

The camera returns to Georgie and Jon at their studio table.

“Nothing more to research on this one,” Jon says, “except to confirm that any files or records for any halfway houses or orphanages in the area have mysteriously gone missing.”

Georgie curses softly, leaning back in her chair and crosses her arms, expression becoming thoughtful.

“Figures, but still.”

Jon sighs, and nods.

“I still can’t believe we misjudged Agnes so terribly,” Georgie says.

“I’ll have you know that I never said anything against her. You were the one who assumed she was a stereotypical horror movie child.” Jon raises a brow, crossing his own arms to mirror Georgie.

“First of all, I resent that. Second of all,” she shoves his shoulder, and he chuckles, “you still suck.”

“I think I’ve come to terms with it now,” Jon muses. “I’ve accepted who I am.”

“Good, because it doesn’t look like it’s going to change anytime soon.” Georgie turns back to the camera. “I think that’s all for today, folks! Don’t forget to like, comment, and subscribe to save us from giant spiders.”

“Donate to our Patreon for bloopers, the Admiral, and more.”

“And don’t forget to follow our Instagram, @what_the_ghost! See ya!”

The camera clicks off.

—————

“Hi—oh, I’m sorry.” Basira creaks the door to Sasha’s office open, wincing apologetically when she noticed that Sasha is still recording.

“It’s fine,” Sasha sighs, clicking the tape recorder off. “I need to get a sign or something.” She smiles, ruefully. Basira gives her a quick, tight smile in return.

“Can we come in?”

“Um—sure. We?”

“I’ve brought my partner. Is that alright?” Basira comes through the doorway, and another woman enters behind her. A quick scowl flits across her face before she seems to school her features into neutrality.

“Oh! Yes. Sasha James, nice to meet you.” Sasha stands and reaches across her desk to shake the woman’s hand. Her grip is firm and calloused, which is more or less what Sasha expected.

“Daisy,” she nods.

“We’re here to get a few more questions and formalities out of the way,” Basira says, pulling up chairs for herself and her partner. Sasha gets why Basira is the one who’s done all of the questioning, up until now. Daisy, despite her name, clearly specializes in intimidation.

Basira obviously hadn’t wanted to scare the archival team off. So why has she brought Daisy with her now? The security camera footage hasn’t been cleared up yet, but Sasha’s been under the impression that there isn’t much the officers can do until then.

“Why did you accept the position of Head Archivist?” Basira’s got her notebook out now. Daisy isn’t writing anything down, leaning back in her chair. Sasha’s nearly tempted to think she isn’t paying attention, but there’s a something like a gleam to her eyes that forces Sasha to rethink that assumption.

“It came with a pay raise, and I was ready for more responsibility after years as a researcher,” Sasha says, halfway to absentminded—she’s a bit preoccupied.

“Alright.” Basira scratches something down in her notebook, a frown just crossing her face, eyes flicking to Daisy and back. She’s very good with people, usually—Sasha knows. Basira’s the talker, the investigator. Normally, she’s much more careful with her expressions. Is it because Daisy’s here—is she more comfortable with her partner at her back? Or is there something else, something that Sasha doesn’t have the context for?

She doesn’t have time for this, this vague back and forth with the police. Between Michael, Gertrude’s tapes, the watching, the nightmares, and whatever’s going on with her and Jon—she does not need a fruitless murder investigation on top of it.

There’s more here than she understands, of course. (There usually is, these days.)

“Could I ask you guys something, actually? If that’s... okay?”

Well. No one can say that Sasha’s not into taking risks lately, that’s for sure.

“I—sure?” Basira glances back at Daisy, who shrugs, noncommittal.

“Why are you here?” Sasha lets her pleading expression show on her face.

“I’m, ah, I’m not sure what you mean, but—“ Basira starts, but Daisy cuts her off, eyes narrowing.

“To investigate the murder of Gertrude Robinson.”

“No, I—I know that, but—you’ve asked all your formality questions from both my staff and me, you finished investigating the crime scene weeks ago—what do you still want with us?” Sasha drags a hand through her ponytail. She’s... probably more tired than she thought she was.

“Don’t do that,” Daisy says. Her voice is light, deceptively so. Basira shoots her an indecipherable glance.

“Do what?” Sasha frowns.

”That,” Daisy glares, a growl just underneath her still-light tone. “And—and we’re investigating you, obviously.” Basira looks back at her partner, much more than confused, now. Daisy, frankly, seems murderous.

“You were just the most likely suspect, that’s all,” Basira attempts to salvage the situation, between worried glances at both Daisy and Sasha. “We couldn’t find a motivation for anyone else.”

“And you’re not helping your case,” Daisy mutters.

“What are you talking about?” Sasha half-cries. “What did I do?”

“I don’t know,” Basira sounds just as confused as Sasha.

“That! Stop that! I swear, if you say one more word—“

“Daisy!” Basira hisses. Daisy quiets, but reluctantly. She leans back in her chair again, seething.

That’s... hm. Not good, probably.

What—what has Sasha done? What did she do—she asked a question? Is she not allowed to ask questions now, is that it? No, no, Basira looked just as confused—

Sasha looks over at the tape recorder on her desk. It’s whirring, the gentle white noise jarring against the frantic conversation.

She’d definitely turned it off.

Sasha curses under her breath. Clicks the off button. Curses again.

Questions. Something about questions.

She’s missing too many pieces.

“I think,” Basira says, slow and careful, “that it’s time we told you about Section 31.”

“As long as it’s not a statement,” says Sasha. Not much caring what the officers think of her at this point, she makes sure the tape recorder is firmly off, shoves it in a filing cabinet, shoves papers on top of it, shoves books on top of those papers, and slams the drawer shut.

“Alright, then,” Sasha settles back down in her chair. “Do go on.”

—————

sashayyy: so I may or may not have another one for the spooky jar

wtJon: Oh No

Chapter Text

“Greetings,” Georgie says, her voice thick with an (arguably, not very good) Transylvanian accent. She is wearing a black cloak, and holding it over the bottom half of her face in a classic vampiric pose. “I am, how you say, Georgie Barker—“

Jon is wearing no such cloak, and is rather comedically out of place next to Georgie’s dramatics in his sweater vest. He doesn’t acknowledge that she’s doing anything different than their usual.

”—and I’m Jonathan Sims—“

“—and welcome back to What the Ghost!” She cackles her best evil laugh, tossing her cloak onto her shoulders.

A clap of ominous thunder is edited into the video.

“Are you all ready to take a bite out of today’s mystery?”

The camera cuts away as Georgie grins evilly at the camera, and the intro plays through. Jon introduces: ”The End of the Tunnel.”

J: I still think you should’ve saved that bit for a vampire-themed episode.

G: Nahhhhhh.

”Erin Gallagher-Nelson was an urban explorer partnered with her brother-in-law Luke Nelson. She did most of the photography, while Nelson did the lighting. They were exploring underneath St. Paul’s Church in West Hackney—or, more accurately, the ruins of St. James.

J: It was destroyed in the Blitz, and they just build St. Paul’s on top of it.

G: They did that with a lot of London, didn’t they?

J: Very much so. I always thought it was a little disappointing—since if we ever wanted to see those ruins, we’d have to demolish half of London to do it.

G: I can’t imagine that the bombs left too many interesting ruins, though.

J: According to Ms. Gallagher-Nelson, they did.

G: Let me rephrase. Interesting ruins that aren’t going to try to kill us.

J: Where’s the fun in that?

”Immediately, they found a long passageway stretching in both directions. The two quickly set up the camera and lights and began taking photos. Ms. Gallagher-Nelson was quite annoyed, however, because the clear shape of a person’s shadow was visible in every picture. She believed it was Luke Nelson, accidentally standing in front of the light.

G: Run! Run for your life!

J: Ah, yes. The classic mysterious and inexplicable shadow.

G: You see a freaky shadow in a picture, you run as fast and far away as you can. It’s that simple!

”After arguing about the cause of the shadow, Nelson stormed off to find more spots for photos. Ms. Gallagher-Nelson took one more photo. The shadow was still there, but she dismissed it as a trick of the light.

G: Why—what—no! No! Leave! At the very least, leave and come back later!

J: Even disregarding a supernatural possibility, there still could be any manner of serial killer in those passages.

G: It’s been a while since we’ve had blatant horror movie protagonists in a video.

J: Alas.

”After they left the passageway, the ruins almost seemed to brighten. They took more photos, these without any shadows. The rest of that direction was blocked by rubble, however, so they were forced turned back through the passageway to head the other way. Nelson wanted to leave entirely, but Gallagher-Nelson did not have enough photos to do anything with. They went further in.

G: [Groan]

J: So close! Soooooo close.

G: They almost made it out! They could’ve made it out without any kind of supernatural experience or trauma, gone home, and taken different pictures later. Goodness.

J: That would’ve been nice.

G: Ugh.

”The farther into the tunnel they went, the worse the shadows became. Still, they continued.

G: They’re not even getting good photos! Just leave!

”They eventually reached the end of the tunnel, without any more decent pictures. Gallagher-Nelson decided to turn back, but as she began to say so, her torch sputtered and died.

G: Oh my word.

J: They really should have left when they had the chance.

G: PSA for all future supernatural-encounterers: Leave! Just leave! As soon as something is up, leave! And then you won’t have to be on YouTube, where I yell at you for fifteen minutes straight.

”Left in pitch-black darkness, the only sound they could hear was each other’s breathing. Until a third set of breathing joined them. And another, and another, and another until they were surrounded.

G: Excuse me, what? What? Wwwwwwhat?

J: Not a fun time!

G: Nah, I thought it sounded like a party. A real blast.

J: You do you, I guess.

”When Nelson finally made a sound—just a small whimper—the breathing stopped, all at once. It was replaced by a sound of scraping metal against stone, and heavy footsteps. Then the scraping and footsteps came again, from the other end of the tunnel, heading towards them from both ends—until there was a sudden silence. Gallagher-Nelson claims she heard Luke Nelson agonizingly scream—and on instinct, flicked the switch on her camera for the flash, flooding the passageway with light. The screaming stopped.

G: Hhhhhholy—this is a visceral one, isn’t it?

J: Ms. Gallagher-Nelson was extremely detailed in her account. It... ended up as the kind of situation where no one believed her, so she told the story everywhere she could.

G: She needs to get a job as a writer, then. Geez. The details are weird, though.

J: Agreed.

G: Presumably these are—shadow monsters of some kind? What were they scraping against the wall for?

J: Might’ve just been for the ambience.

G: Pfft, I mean. Maybe. My first instinct was honestly that it was like, a sword or something? But...

J: But what use would a shadow monster have for a weapon?

G: Yeah!

J: Hm. I think there might actually be a point to be made for the ambience reason.

G: The supernatural is overdramatic by nature.

J: True. And the combination of sounds serves exactly one purpose—

G: Scaring these two to death?

J: Well... exactly.

G: Ohhhh! That is certainly a point that can be made!

”Luke hung from the grips of two long, spindly shadows. One held his body, the other, his torn-off head. After that, Ms. Gallagher only remembers screaming and blacking out.”

G: Hm! Question!

J: Yes?

G: Why did the shadow monsters feel the need to rip off his head? Why was that something that they felt would be necessary? Wouldn’t spooky shadow magic have been much better and significantly more thematically appropriate?

J: Who could know the whims of shadow monsters? Certainly not I.

G: Charles Dickens, circa 2017.

The camera returns to Georgie and Jon in their studio. Georgie is still wearing her cloak, but she seems to have forgotten that fact.

“Ms. Gallagher-Nelson is alright, at least physically. Luke Nelson is technically still reported missing, as no body was ever found.” Jon shuffles through the papers he has in front of him.

“What about the pictures? She took a lot of them,” Georgie asks.

“Her camera was taken from her, because of course it was,” Jon rolls his eyes. “So, nothing on that front.” He pushes his glasses up his nose, and looks over at Georgie—rather excitedly. “I do have something else, though.”

“Well, come on then! Don’t keep me waiting,” Georgie urges.

“The original church—St. James—was designed by an architect from the early 1800s called Robert Smirke.” Jon folds his fingers together on the table, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Tim’s done quite a bit of research on him. He was part of the gothic revival, and is known for winding tunnels and secret rooms, places designed to get lost in. In fact,” he looks over at Georgie, and she excitedly waves for him to continue. “Nearly every statement in the Magnus Institute dealing with old London architecture was designed by him—and if it wasn’t him, it was one of his students.” He slaps his hand on the table.

“And guess what?”

“What?”

“He was involved in designing the tunnels that run underneath the Magnus Institute.”

“No way!” Georgie slaps her hands on the table in the same manner as Jon. “So this guy was a spooky, spooky man, then. Involved in some of the spookiest business we’ve seen yet!”

With every ‘spooky,’ Jon’s expression becomes more and more pained.

“Maybe not,” he manages. “Tim’s theory is that he made his buildings... like that... to actually confuse the supernatural, just as much as the people.”

“Like the Winchester Mystery House!” Georgie gasps, and points furiously at both Jon and the camera.

“Yes, exactly,” Jon points right back at Georgie. “Although I’m still doubtful that’s a genuine case,” he apparently can’t resist adding.

“We can’t know for sure unless we visit it, and I don’t think we’re going to America anytime soon.” Georgie sighs. “I still think there’s a good chance for it.”

“Ah, but it wasn’t designed by Robert Smirke,” Jon crosses his arms, leaning back in his chair.

“Smirke, shmirk,” Georgie waves him off. “Well, I think that’s all for today, folks. Don’t forget to like, comment, and subscribe to keep our channel from stupidly exploring ruins of buildings designed by Robert Smirke.”

“Donate to our Patreon for bloopers compilations, the Admiral, and more.”

“See ya!”

—————

“Statement ends,” Sasha exhales. “Now onto something far more interesting.” She gives the tape recorder a sidelong glance. “You’re just going to keep going, aren’t you? You don’t care whether I turn you off or not.”

The tape recorder does not respond, but it keeps whirring.

“That’s what I thought. Well then,” she stands, her chair squeaking terribly against the old wood floors. “I’ve listened to enough of Gertrude’s tapes to notice a few things. Namely—with only two exceptions—they seem to follow a theme.”

She sighs, slowly.

“I still haven’t talked to Tim about it. I need to. I know—I know I need to. But... yeah. I haven’t.”

She steps around to the side of her desk and crouches on the floor, heedless of the dust her long skirt is gathering.

“Pretty much every recording so far has been about... replacement. Akin to Graham Folger’s experience, or something similarly uncanny valley—except for two of them. The first more or less only proved that Gertrude was... well. Extremely capable, and fond of explosives. The second...”

Sasha digs her nails into the floorboards, searching for something. She’s been neglecting them, only a few flecks of old paint remaining, and she’s sure that digging around in old wood isn’t going to make them any nicer.

“...from Mary Keay. A dreadful woman, sounds like. But there were two points of interest there. The first—Miss Keay made a reference to something called the End. Capital E, from the tone of her voice. It’s apparently something that can be served, which is... weird. I’m tempted to think it’s something like the Lightless Flame, or People’s Church, but those are all established cults. The ‘End’ is not. The second point of interest..”

There.

“A loose floorboard in the Head Archivist’s office. Apparently containing... let’s see... a laptop and a key.”

She pulls the respective items out from their dusty, cobwebby hiding place, brushing them off. She shoves the key in a drawer—she’s not sure what it opens, but with the way her luck is going right now, she’s going to find out.

Sasha opens the laptop. The thing’s barely alive, but it’s a common enough brand, and Sasha’s own laptop charger fits just fine.

“You all are so lucky that my dad’s a programmer.”

She’d broken into much better-secured laptops, computers, and assorted inaccessible records while she was in research. Getting into Gertrude’s laptop is almost too easy, too simple for such a secretive woman.

“You’re not going to want to hear a bunch of typing and nothing else, so I’m turning you off until I’m done going through all this.”

She reaches over and clicks the tape recorder off.

Sasha clicks it back on.

“This is... interesting, to say the least. Both exactly what I expected, and also not!”

She closes the laptop, and places it in the same desk drawer as the key.

“There’s very complete record of her travels, for one. She sure went a lot of places for an archivist who needs to, y’know, archive. She also bought a lot of very dangerous items, most of which are very common in arson, extermination, and deep cave exploration.”

She pauses.

“None of which an archivist should be doing, obviously.”

Sasha exhales, slowly, dragging a hand through her ponytail. It’s coming loose.

“Interesting, sure, but ultimately helpful? Not really. Not unless there’s something at these locations I need to find, but if Gertrude was dropping hints, she’s done a bad job of it. No. What this really proves, is that I’m not picking the tapes at random.”

She stops, and quietly laughs to herself.

“I mean, I certainly thought I was picking them at random, but clearly... well, from the running theme of statements, and information on Gertrude—I think I’m being guided to them? Somehow. Might as well go along with it, I think. Not much else to do about it, except for adding to the Spooky Jar.”

Turning back to the tape recorder, she raises a brow.

“Are you happy now? Have you gotten what you wanted?”

The tape recorder, as always, does not respond.

—————

To say that Georgie wasn’t expecting guests was an understatement. To say thats Georgie wasn’t expecting Melanie to show up dripping wet at her flat near midnight... was also an understatement.

It’s hardly the first time Melanie’s shown up unannounced—Georgie and Jon have both done their fair share of unannounced visits, as well—but the fact that Melanie didn’t even bother grabbing an umbrella says something about her state of mind.

Which means that Georgie and Jon now have a throughly toweled and blanketed Melanie on their couch, at a time during which every single one of them should have been sleeping.

(...If Jon ever bothered to have a coherent sleep schedule at any point in time, of course.)

The Admiral, ever the diplomat, comes rushing up to greet Melanie, who gladly scoops him into her arms.

“Hello, my boy!” She smiles, which is something of a relief to Georgie.

“Well someone’s happy to see you,” Jon says, before taking one look at Melanie’s state and going off to clatter about in the kitchen.

“Mind telling me what’s going on?” Georgie asks, once Melanie is properly situated with the Admiral in her lap.

“I’ll—hm. Is Jon making tea? He knows he can’t make tea to save his life.” She glances back at the kitchen, which isn’t entirely visible from the living room, with some trepidation.

“Nah. I think he’s making us those mug cake things, actually.” Georgie is the designated tea-maker and Jon the designated cook for a reason.

“Well, hell. Who let him read my mind?” Melanie scowls in Jon’s direction, as though offended he managed to know her well. She turns to grin at Georgie, a little lopsided. Georgie returns the expression with her own fond smile, along with a poke to Melanie’s shoulder.

“He’s just like that. Now, please do tell? Speak words of English? Parles, s’il te plaît?”

“Yeah, yeah. Hey Jon!” Melanie calls towards the kitchen, “can you hear us?”

“Yep!” He calls back, over the sound of the microwave starting.

“So uh... you know that Ghost Hunt UK hasn’t been doing too well, yeah?”

“We’ve kind of talked about it, but you haven’t said much.” Georgie knocks her shoulder against Melanie’s. “Haven’t seen too many uploads from you guys, either.”

“Well... as of a bit ago, it’s pretty much officially done for, I think. I’m the only one left. I kind of wasn’t sure, so I didn’t say anything at first, but. I’m pretty sure now.” Melanie isn’t making much eye contact, hunching in on herself slightly—but there’s enough determination in her voice to keep Georgie from interrupting.

“It’s fine. They’re all flakes, anyway. But I haven’t been able to find another crew, mostly because I think...” Melanie turns to face Georgie, expression intense.

“You remember the Cambridge Military Hospital, right?” Georgie nods, but Melanie seems to barely see it. “Of course you do, you guys guest-starred. Nothing’s been right since that episode, and Sarah. But it did get me thinking, and—doing some research into the places that people like us investigate, and—“

She grabs Georgie’s arm.

“They’re all the same. It’s all the same places with the same stories. Anywhere else—anywhere with something real—just gets... disregarded.”

Melanie looks away again, dropping her hand. She runs her fingers through the Admiral’s fur, before seeming to gather herself and look back at Georgie, her eyes just as intense as before.

“Is that why you and Jon pick the stories you do? I’ve wanted to asked that for a while, actually,” she laughs, a little self-consciously. “You always do the weirdest ones. But it looks like you had the right of it.” She pokes one of the worm scars on Georgie’s left arm, and Georgie gladly returns the favor with a prod to her ribs.

“Ah yes, getting eaten alive by worms. A discovery for the ages.”

“It was, though!” Melanie elbows her and laughs. “That, and now the Michael thing—you guys investigated what no one else would, and you actually found the supernatural. Definitively, without a doubt, and with the scars to prove it. And like, three heart attacks on my part. Please stop getting injured.”

“Not likely,” Georgie shrugs, entirely unapologetic. Melanie rolls her eyes.

Jon comes clattering back into the living room, three mugs of something with chocolate chips in his hands, forks stabbed into the middle of each.

“Careful, they’re hot.”

Melanie takes this as a challenge, because it’s Jon that said it. Georgie is going to be very surprised if she still has taste buds by the end of the night, since she seems determined to burn them all off.

Jon scowls at her. Melanie makes direct eye contact and takes another bite. There are tears in her eyes.

“Disregarding your blatant disregard for the safety of your own tongue—what was the rush about, then? It’s way too cold out there for you to be getting here wet.” Jon sits down on Melanie’s other side.

“First of all, calm your concerned horses. I have the Admiral, many blankets, and chocolate chip mug cake. I am as warm as a human can possibly be.” Pointedly, she takes another bite of the cake. Georgie suppresses a wince.

“Second of all, I think I found something.”

“Go on?” Georgie raises a brow.

“Over in Rotherham, there’s this enormous train graveyard. A few posts have mentioned an old, old metal rail car that never seems to be on the line to get scrapped, and sometimes smells like ‘old blood.’ The story’s been posted a few times on different sites, never copy-pasted. It’s just... got a sense to it.”

“Some of our videos are like that,” Georgie muses, thoughtful. Jon nods in agreement. “There’s something more solid about them.”

“Exactly!” Melanie’s vehement agreement ruffles the Admiral, and she’s quick to pet him so he doesn’t leave her lap. “I need to go there. I need to see... whatever this is for myself. And. Hopefully post it.”

“We’ll come with you,” Jon says immediately, before quickly looking up at Georgie. “Won’t we?”

“Absolutely.” There’s no way in hell she’s letting Melanie go off by herself—and that’s what Melanie would do, if they didn’t come, if they tried to talk her out of it. She’s stubborn like that.

From what Georgie’s seen, that usually serves her well. Gives her the determination she needs to get what she wants, go places she wants go, to build a career from nothing.

It also gets her hurt.

Jon’s already getting out his laptop and asking Melanie to send him the links she found, for the name of the scrapyard, for any details on the train car she could find. Georgie scoots closer to look over Jon’s shoulder, squishing Melanie between them.

Well then. Guess they’re going to Rotherham. Georgie’s always wanted to see a train graveyard, anyway.

—————

There is a new Instagram story from @what_the_ghost. It’s a picture of Jon and Melanie, hovered over a laptop, pointing at something. They both have open notebooks nearby, with notes in scribbled, indecipherable handwriting. There are two stickers. The first shows the time, 1:42 am. The other reads: ‘oh no. there are two of them’.

The second installment of the story is a video of the Admiral purring against Georgie’s leg, scattered with sparkly heart stickers.

Chapter Text

An intro plays. Heavily-filtered clips of assorted paranormal investigations and findings flicker through—a group staring at a small black box, pointing out writing on old walls, wandering a dark hallway filtered with night vision. Upbeat yet creepy music overlays it. As the intro fades, words glitch and flicker over the screen until they come together, reading: Ghost Hunt U.K.

The video shakes as Georgie adjusts her hold on the camera from the passenger’s seat of a car.

“Road trip!” She cheers. She moves the camera from Jon, driving, to Melanie, stretched out in the back seat. She flips it around to show herself, and waves.

“Would the mastermind behind this excursion like to tell our lovely viewers what’s going on?” Georgie flips the camera back around and focuses on Melanie.

“Hm,” Melanie says. “Maybe.”

Georgie slowly zooms in on Melanie’s face as she stares directly at the camera and says nothing.

“It’s an hour and a half until we’re swapping,” Jon says from out of frame. “We’ve got time.”

Melanie breaks her intense staring contest with the camera to glare at the back of Jon’s head.

“You lose!” Georgie laughs, and Melanie curses.

“Okay, okay. We are going to... drumroll please.”

“I’m holding the camera and Jon’s trying to keep us from crashing,” a smug is smile audible in Georgie’s voice. “How could we possibly drumroll for you?”

“I hate you both,” Melanie flops back on the car seat.

“Nah,” Georgie says, at the same time that Jon says “Nope.”

“Fine!” Melanie grumbles. “We’re headed to the C.F. Booth scrapyard.” She rather loses her exaggerated grumpiness, invested in their destination as she is. “There’s a train car there that’s never on the line to be scrapped, and apparently smells like old blood when you pass by. It sounds terrifically haunted,” she grins.

Georgie flips the camera back around to show herself.

“And there you have it, folks!” She gives the camera a thumbs up, and the video cuts out.

It cuts back in with Melanie holding the camera, as Jon and Georgie loudly sing a song Georgie’s playing from her phone, that only they seem to know. Melanie flips the camera around to face herself and rolls her eyes. The video cuts away.

It returns on the car pulled over, as Jon and Melanie switch places.

“Swapsies!” Georgie calls. Melanie sticks her tongue out at her before hopping into the driver’s seat.

“You all have to listen to my music now,” she grins viciously. “Suffer.”

The video cuts out, and cuts back in on the car rolling into a car park. Melanie wastes no time pulling into a faintly-marked spot.

“Incredible,” Jon mutters, dry. “A bad parking job is just going to get us caught, you know.”

“Shut up and deal,” Melanie yanks the parking break back. The sunlight outside is quickly fading, washing the video in the darkening pink of sunset.

“Can you see anything, then?” He moves forward to look through the windshield, into the camera’s frame.

“Not yet,” Georgie says, “the walls are a bit too high. I think there’s an open gate over to the left, though.”

“We just have to get past the security guards,” Melanie exhales.

“We should wait until it’s darker, then. The camera’s got night vision, we’re good on that end.” Jon sits back in the backseat.

“Sounds good,” Georgie says. She flips the camera around to give it another thumbs up. “See you guys in a bit!”

The video cuts out. When it returns, everything is washed in the sickly green of night vision, and the trio is getting out of the car. Jon seems to be holding the camera now, with both Melanie and Georgie in-frame.

“I still think the left gate’s our best bet,” Georgie’s saying.

“It’s way too exposed,” Melanie protests.

“That gate’s just sitting there open! And there’s just the one guy—I think I have an idea for him.”

“But—“

“C’mon. Trust me?” Georgie gives her a lopsided smile. Melanie closes her eyes and sighs.

“Fine. Alright. Let’s go.”

They creep along the car park, taking care to stay behind cars whenever they can. Once they’re in front of the left gate, Georgie gestures for Melanie and Jon to head around to the side, while she...

Walks straight up to the security guard.

Jon zooms in on her.

“What the hell is she doing?” Melanie whispers.

“Shh!” Jon hisses.

“Excuse me,” Georgie’s voice is made fainter by the distance, but she’s speaking loud enough it’s practically a shout.

“Uh—miss?” The guard frowns, clearly confused.

“I can’t believe this. I cannot believe this. Incredible! It’s actually incredible just how imbecilic you people are. What, you think you can just scrap into pieces any random crap you find on the streets? Is that it? Goodness gracious!”

Behind her back, Georgie waves for Melanie and Jon to run through the gate.

“Let’s go,” Melanie whispers. Jon has just enough time to shush her again before they both dash through the gate as quickly as they can, the video shaking violently.

“I ask—no. No, no, I demand— that you let me speak to your superiors. I am genuinely in shock, can you tell? Practically diagnosable shock, I tell you! This is borderline inconceivable, good Lord—“

Georgie’s voice fades as Melanie and Jon sprint farther into the scrapyard, the only sounds their own footsteps on gravel and heavy breathing.

Once they’re far enough away from the walls, Melanie gestures towards Jon and the camera to slow down. She bends over to catch her breath.

“I can’t believe that worked,” she whispers, punctuated by a huffed laugh.

“We owe her so many drinks now,” Jon whispers back.

“So many,” Melanie agrees. She moves to turn on her torch, but seems to think better of it and puts it back in her pocket.

“Where are we headed?”

“It’s towards the back, since it’s been here forever,” Melanie points in the right direction, “but other than that... we should know it when we see it. Or... smell it, I guess.”

They begin walking, with the Melanie in the lead. Jon slowly moves the camera around to show the heaps of scrap, the crunching of their trainers on the gravel echoing lightly.

The video stutters oddly. Small text floats up from the bottom of the screen: Editor’s Note: Figured you all wouldn’t be too interested in several boring minutes of just walking. ;)

“You smell that?” Melanie whips around to face Jon and the camera.

“Eugh. Yep.” The grimace is audible in Jon’s voice.

“We’re close. There’s another bunch of train cars over that way, I bet it’s there.” She turns and—stealth somewhat abandoned—hurriedly makes her way to the cars, with Jon trying to keep up behind.

“It’ll be a lot boxier than a modern train,” Melanie whispers once they reach the cars. “Also, where the blood smell is the strongest.”

“Well obviously,” Jon mutters. Melanie rolls her eyes at him.

She turns on her torch and shines it on each of the train cars in turn, all of them in various states of wreckage and rust, most reduced to their spindly frames.

Melanie suddenly gasps and does a double take, whipping her torch to light up the inside of a window.

“Did you see that?” she hisses.

“No,” Jon says slowly, “but I wasn’t looking that way, so I don’t—I don’t know for sure.”

After a few more minutes of searching, Melanie starts to cough into her elbow, trying to muffle the sound in the thick fabric of her hoodie.

“I think we’ve found it,” she manages. “That is an awful smell, oh geez.”

“I’m just going to avoid breathing altogether,” Jon croaks.

Melanie shines her torch down the length of the train car they’ve found. Unlike the rusted skeletons surrounding them, rising threateningly from the stark shadows—it is perfectly whole, and lacking any rust, despite clearly being ancient. She takes care to focus on the serial number, clearly printed on the side, before she steps carefully towards the heavy sliding door with Jon close behind.

She manages to heave the door open, shining her torch inside. Jon adjusts his position so the camera can see inside as well.

“Is that—is that blood?” Melanie stutters.

“That’s definitely blood,” Jon exhales shakily.

It’s hard to tell on the video, with everything washed in night vision grey-green, but it certainly looks like blood.

Editor’s Note: Please don’t kill us, YouTube. Just pretend it’s melted chocolate or something.

It runs in rivulets down the train. Melanie shines her flashlight higher, and Jon moves the camera to follow it.

The blood seems to be coming from an old-fashioned metal gurney—upon which there is a white body bag. Twitching, and writhing.

Jon sucks in a breath as Melanie hisses a curse.

From the left of the camera frame, the dark shape of a man appears. He’s holding something, glinting in the torchlight—a scalpel. And he’s wearing old-fashioned military fatigues, a Red Cross armband stretched across his arm.

The camera flickers, blurs. Static gathers at the edges of the recording, but it’s a brief interruption—the camera is quickly forced back into stark clarity.

The man charges over to the body bag and plunges the scalpel into it, over and over and over again, blood splattering, coating the walls, coating his uniform.

He turns.

Looks directly at the camera.

The video flickers, desperately, but the camera harshly drags it back to a level of clarity that a camera should not be capable of.

And with the heightened quality, you can see every detail of his eyes.

(Bloodthirsty, raging. Human, yet utterly inhuman.)

He charges. Melanie tries to back away with a strangled cry, but she isn’t fast enough, couldn’t be fast enough—Jon curses and grabs her arm, dragging her to the side, away from the train car. The scalpel drags across her collarbone, quickly drawing blood.

He’s still looking at the camera. There is hatred in its otherwise-empty stare. Jon manages to hold the camera away, but the scalpel plunges into his shoulder instead.

He bites off a scream, the video tilted and shaking but clearly showing Melanie’s paling face, drawn with horror, and Jon’s white-knuckled grip on her arm.

“We gotta go, we gotta—we gotta go, we gotta go,” she stutters, her voice trembling.

The man—or whatever he is—snarls and makes another swipe towards them as Melanie and Jon turn to run.

His eyes are starkly visible on the camera, like the afterimage of a bright light, before the video violently shakes and cuts off.

It cuts back on in the car with Georgie in the driver’s seat, frantically turning the wheel, and Jon and Melanie in the back. From the perspective of the video, the camera seems to be laying forgotten on the dashboard.

“—this is what I’m always going on about! Why didn’t you run?! I’m out here trying to yell at this poor security guard while having a damn panic attack ‘cause I can hear screaming—”

“—We could hardly just leave,” Jon protests. He’s holding his balled-up jacket to the wound on his shoulder, glistening with blood. Melanie is doing the same with her hoodie, pressing it to the slash wound on her collarbone.

“There was an actual—ghost, at least I think that’s what it was! It was a whole,” Melanie laughs, only slightly hysterical, “actual ghost.”

“A ghost that attacked you with a scalpel,” Georgie cries, incredulous.

“Does it matter? I mean, I’m super glad we’re alive and all, don’t get me wrong, but,” Melanie is gesturing wildly, frantically. “We got a real ghost on tape. A real ghost! Ha!”

“You don’t even know if it recorded properly,” Georgie starts, but Jon quickly interrupts her.

“It did. I know that much.”

“Can’t say anything for the quality of the camera work, though,” Melanie exhales, laughing lightly.

“I’m a good cameraman! Why do you all doubt me like this,” Jon leans his head back in his seat in exasperation, but he’s smiling—also slightly hysterical, but it’s there.

“You’re both idiots,” Georgie drags a hand down her face. “But thank the Lord you’re alive. Never scare me like that again.”

“Oh, like you’re one to talk,” Melanie kicks the back of her seat. “How d’you think I felt when the worms got you? Mm?”

“Point taken, I guess.” Georgie sighs.

The video cuts out. When it cuts back in, the three of them are sitting in the What the Ghost studio, days after the previous part of the video. Melanie sits in between Jon and Georgie, the faint outline of bandages tracing up her collarbone. A large lump of bandaging is barely visible underneath Jon’s sweater.

“Welcome back to the Idiots Get Injured Bonanza. I’m your host, Georgie Barker.”

“I’m your other host, Melanie King.”

“And I’m your other host, Jonathan Sims.”

“And what are you two here to show our audience?” Georgie asks.

“Research.” Melanie claps her hands, and Jon reaches down to grab a pile of papers and books, with his laptop on top. It lands on the table with a heavy thud.

“The carriage is from the 11th US Army Hospital train, operating in the European theatre starting in August, 1944, during World War II.” Melanie says.

“Until it was derailed in April, 1945, killing 5 and seriously injuring 14. There were apparently no patients onboard, and only one car avoided derailment.” Jon continues.

“William Hay’s account of the crash is the most detailed available—“

“—and also linked in the description,” Jon adds.

“—yes, that. In summary, he very vividly describes the unspeakable violence that occurred on the train, and implies that it was purposefully crashed in order to prevent any more ‘savagery.’” Melanie grimaces.

“Gross!” Georgie says cheerfully.

“Very!” Melanie agrees, and Jon vigorously nods.

“Aaaaaaand I think that’s all for today, folks,” Georgie turns to the camera. “Sorry for the scare!”

“Don’t forget to like, comment, and subscribe to Ghost Hunt U.K. and What the Ghost,” Melanie says.

“Donate to both Patreons for more... ghostliness,” Jon continues.

“And don’t forget to follow our Instagrams, @ghosthuntuk and @what_the_ghost!” Georgie waves, along with Melanie, who pokes Jon in the arm hard enough that he waves with them. “See ya!”

—————

“William Hay also talks about something similar happening in India, in the Amritsar infirmary,” Melanie offhandedly says while Georgie turns off the camera.

“You’re not going to India.”

“Ugh. Fine. You’re no fun.”

“I’m plenty of fun. You both just have death wishes.” Georgie scoffs.

“No fun at all,” Jon mutters. He and Melanie glance at each other in commiseration, nodding with mock sadness. Georgie is left with nothing to do but roll her eyes.

Chapter Text

“In the wise words of Pippi Longstocking, salutations!” Georgie waves to the camera as the video opens.

Melanie is sitting between her and Jon, hiding a laugh behind her hand.

“We haven’t let Melanie go home yet for fear of stab wound complications, so she will be joining us!” Georgie cheerfully explains.

“In the great words of... every fictional character ever, hello.” Melanie waves.

“Shush. Now, for the actual intro.” Georgie gently slaps a hand over Melanie’s mouth. “I’m Georgie Barker—“

Jon, who has been watching with a vague mixture of amusement and exasperation, turns to the camera with a short sigh.

”—and I’m Jonathan Sims—“

“I love that she makes you do that every time,” Melanie snickers, sliding Georgie’s hand away from her face.

“Shush. Intro time.” Jon pokes the side of her head.

“And I’m Melanie King!”

“Welcome back to What the Ghost!” Georgie cheers. “Finally!”

“Maybe you guys should all say it together. Like one of those kids shows! Get the audience involved.” Melanie muses.

“No commentary until we’re past the intro!” Georgie slaps her hand back over Melanie’s mouth.

The camera cuts away so the intro sequence can play through, until Jon’s voice filters over: ”Thought for the Day.”

M: So anyway, audience participation?

J: No.

”Darren Harlow is a janitor at the University of Surrey, specialized in cleaning laboratory spaces. Because of this position, the students and professors will talk to him, but it is important to note that his information—at least at first—is mostly secondhand, though verifiable.

M: Way to undercut the drama.

J: I’m not going to leave our viewers uninformed.

G: Mellie, he’s got a bibliography. What did you expect?

M: Mmm, fair.

J: You may not appreciate my cited sources, but the comment section certainly does.

M: You’re not helping your case.

”Dr. Elizabeth Bates, a professor of psychology, along with her postgrad students, was performing a study on ‘proximity intuition’—or, more accurately, ESP research, in 2010.

G: Sometimes the supernatural victimizes random, innocent people. Sometimes, they’re asking for it.

M: Gonna take a wild guess and assume this is an example of the latter?

G: Boy is it! Time for my patented Official Georgie Barker Advice: Leave!

J: The subjects participating the experiment would have been subjected to a single-blind procedure, though. They wouldn’t necessarily know what’s going on, or that it was a situation they needed to escape.

G: Hm. Still. The researchers, at least, should know better.

M: Hey, I took Psych. Isn’t double-blind better?

J: Yes! Surrey apparently didn’t care.

M: Suspicious. Someone needs their license revoked.

J: Rest assured, they won’t be performing any experiments anytime soon.

G: It’s for the best.

M: Good.

”Harlow describes the experiment as having a one-way mirror. The subject would be on the mirrored side, under observation and analysis, while on the other side of the glass was a varying number of different volunteer participants, receiving stimulus for a certain emotion. The subject would be analyzed to see their response to the one or more participants on the other side of the glass.

M: Sounds like a bunch of mumbo-jumbo bull.

J: It really does.

G: Fascinating, though. I’d still want to see the results.

M: Well yeah, of course I want to see the results. But like... it’s sketchy.

G: Oh yeah, obviously. ‘Ooooooo how spooky! The power of empathy!’

M: I’ve always thought it would make an interesting superpower, actually. Lots of implications you could use to your advantage for a story.

J: Wouldn’t work well visually, though, so a superhero comic is kind of out of the question.

G: You heard it here first, folks. One of you needs to write a book with an empath as the protagonist.

M: Listen. I’d read the hell out of that.

J: Seconded.

G: Thirded! Is that a word? Actually, I don’t care.

”The emotion being measured was fear, and the stimulus was spiders—the volunteer participants being arachnophobes.

J: Ugh. Spiders.

M: You are one of the least likely people to be arachnophobic I’ve ever met. And yet.

J: They’re horrible. Horrendous. Awful. Disgusting—

M: We’re horror investigators and researchers! We can’t afford to be anything-phobic! I’m not anything-phobic. Are you, GG?

G: Not at all.

M: See!

J: But spiders, though.

M: I dunno, they can be kind of cute.

G: Okay, now that’s too far. They’re definitely not cute.

J: [Shudder]

M: Cowards. You’re just in denial.

J: I might gag. I actually might. I’m right next to you Melanie, how would you feel about that?

M: Ew. Gross.

J: Yeah! Exactly!

G: Mellie, you and Martin can go hang out in your spider corner. The rest of us, who are notably sane, will continue murdering and despising them as we please.

M: Maybe I will!

J: Good riddance to the spider sympathizers.

G: Sayonara.

”The subject was a student named Annabelle Cane.

J: See, that’s oddly familiar. Have we mentioned her before?

G: I mean, there’s the doll.

J: That might be what I’m thinking of.

M: Who knew... Annabelle the demon doll was arachnophobic all along.

G: Truly a wonder!

”Surprisingly, Ms. Cane seemed to be experiencing fear responses in tandem with the arachnophobic volunteers. Trials with a control group further proved it.

G: Ah yes. Fancy experiment language. I’d hoped to never hear the words ‘control group’ again, right alongside ‘independent variable.’ Memories.

J: There’s a reason I didn’t want to pursue a degree in the sciences.

M: It’s always the simplest vocabulary terms that get you.

”As the experiment continued, Harlow reports that he began to see—and need to clean—more and more cobwebs from the testing room. He rarely saw the spiders themselves.

M: Here comes the snazzy spider horror.

J: Please don’t remind me.

M: Oh, I will.

”As they increased the amount of participators in the room, so did Ms. Cane’s fear response increase. She even reported having unsettling dreams about spiders, though at no point was she ever informed that spiders were involved in the experiment.

G: See, this goes back to the empath superhero. I’m less inclined to believe that this is the experiment’s fault, and more that Annabelle is the chosen protagonist for something and has magic powers.

J: So they just happened to randomly choose the one person that would have a reaction to the experiment?

G: I’m not saying it’s not weird, but still.

M: Like I said. Sketchy.

”Eventually though, Ms. Cane’s reactions changed to be something other than fear. Harlow does not specify what the new emotion was.

M: She’s just so, so very excited to be strapped to a chair and analyzed using arachnophobia! So pumped!

G: Pfft!

M: It’s what she’s always wanted! It’s what we’ve all always wanted!

J: Now you’re getting suspiciously Freudian.

M: You take that back!

”Harlow claims to have seen Ms. Cane begin to walk at odd angles, and scuttle her fingers along the wall like spider legs.

G: Oh goodness—is she turning into a spider? Is this Animorphs? I didn’t sign up for Animorphs.

J: I forgot those books existed. Why did you have to remind me.

M: Spidergirl! Spidergirl! Does whatever a spider... uh... can.

J: Two out of ten. Disappointing.

M: I’m disappointed in myself, to be honest. I could’ve done better.

”Harlow’s account says that he didn’t really believe that anything paranormal might be happening until the 11th of November.

G: One of these days we’ll get something happening on Friday the 13th. One day.

J: Unfortunately, you’ll have to settle for Thursday the 11th.

”At nine thirty in the evening, the lights in the testing room were still on. Assuming they had been left on accidentally, Harlow opened the door to turn them off. Instead of an empty lab, Harlow could see that all of the arachnophobes were still there, and stood in two concentric circles—

M: ‘Concentric.’ Ew. That’s a math word.

G: We hate math in this household!

J: Listen. I hate math as much as the next academic researcher, but it was an efficient descriptor. Would you rather I wrote ‘two circles with one inside of the other’ and waste words like that?

M: Okay, but geometry. [Shudder]

J: ...Yeah, alright, touché.

”—with their hands and arms interlocked in a complex pattern, rotating.

M: New horror movie, coming out this summer. ‘The Human Kaleidoscope.’

J: Can’t be any worse than The Purge.

M: What an idiotic movie. I loved it for that, though.

G: All those people were stupid. Don’t commit murder during the Purge! Commit, like, tax fraud!

J: Get away with copyright infringements.

M: Suck it, YouTube! You can’t demonetize me during the Purge!

”One of the postgrad students, Mark Voight, was in the corner. Everyone in the room appeared as thought they were in a trance.

M: The dangers of the Human Kaleidoscope.

G: We’re on a story-developing roll today! Someone hire us!

J: If anyone would be qualified to write a horror movie, it would be us.

”On the other side of the glass, Annabelle Cane was staring at them, hunched. Her limbs were contorted, and for a second—it looked like she had multiple eyes.

G: Aaaaaaaand we’re back in spider town.

J: I’d like to leave spider town immediately.

M: Too bad. You’re trapped in spider town.

J: Horrific. No thanks.

”Almost as soon as Harlow entered the room, everyone froze, and their heads snapped to face him all at once. Instead of attacking him, they turned and moved towards the window. Lining close in front of the glass, as one, they drew their heads back and slammed them into the one-way mirror, shattering it.

M: [Choked laughter]

G: Hm! Interesting? I guess?

M: [Wheezing] Okay, logically, I know that that would be super creepy in real life, but. That’s hilarious. Everyone just headbutts the window all at once! Why?!

J: Rock concerts are just really going downhill these days.

M: Ha!

G: This video is turning out to be wonderfully incomprehensible. Good luck to the theorists! You guys’ll need it.

”Ms. Cane began to climb through the broken window, and slowly and deliberately, she made her way over to Harlow. Her eyes locked onto his. Harlow reports feeling ‘a hundred tiny, scurrying legs’ inside his skull.

J: I hate this I hate this I hate this I hate this—

M: Admittedly. That’s. Uh.

G: Not very nice?

M: Not very nice!

”He claims that his hands raised of their own accord, crawling up his body until they reached his neck, and he began to unwillingly strangle himself.

G: WAIT A SECOND. WAIT A SECOND. WAIT A
SECOND.

J: What?

M: What, what is it?

G: RAYMOND!!!! THATS LIKE—THE, THE SPIDERS, THE MIND CONTROL—

M: Fielding? From your haunted house videos?

J: Good Lo—you’re RIGHT! Spider mind control!

G: SPIDER MIND CONTROL!

M: Huh. Don’t like that.

J: No no no! Not at all!

G: Not one bit!

”At that moment, Mark Voight, the postgrad research student, managed to break his trance and charge into her, slamming her head into the edges of the broken window.

M: Hell yeah! That’s what I’m talking about!

G: [Applause]

M: The supernatural can SUCK IT!

”Just before he ran, Harlow saw Annabelle Cane start to get back up. The side of her skull was caved in, and beneath the blood and gore, was a mass of cobweb.”

The camera returns to the studio.

“Spidergirl, Spidergirl, there’s spiderwebs underneath her curls! Mind-controls you with her eyes! You can’t escape nomatterhowhard you try! Look out! Here comes the Spidergirl!” Melanie sings, her hand on her heart. As she finishes, she slams her hands on the table. “There! That’s much better!”

Georgie and Jon both applaud.

“Thank you, thank you,” Melanie mimes a bow.

“Anyway,” Jon says, slapping a few scattered papers onto the table, “Research.”

“Oho!” Melanie claps her hands.

“Surrey University is now infamous for the study, although the version released to the public is that of a student gone mad, rather than... well...”

“Spider mind control,” Georgie finishes.

“...Yes.”

“What about the psychologists, though?” Melanie leans over Jon, trying to get a closer look at his papers. He looks mildly offended, and jabs his elbow into her arm to force her back.

“No licenses were lost, but no one’s hiring them anytime soon, that’s for certain.” Jon pointedly slides the papers past Melanie over to Georgie, who happily takes them to shuffle through.

“Annabelle Cane is, as far as anyone knows, still out there.”

“Aaaaaaand scene,” Melanie makes a chopping motion with her hand.

“No?” Jon frowns.

“You have no sense of drama,” Melanie flops back in her chair with a heavy sigh.

“That’s patently false,” Georgie leans her elbow on Melanie’s shoulder.

“Okay, but still.”

“We have a whole outro to do,” Jon raises a brow.

“He has a point there. It’s tradition, we can’t start doing dramatic endings now,” Georgie shrugs.

“I see how it is. Both of you against me, forever my enemy... a friendship torn apart by fame...” Melanie delicately lays the back of her hand on her forehead.

“And fortune!” Georgie nudges her with her shoulder. “Don’t forget fortune.”

“And fortune!”

“Aaaaaaaaaand I think that’s all for today,” Jon sighs.

“It is! Don’t forget to like, comment and subscribe to keep us free of the incredibly suspicious cobwebs of unseen spiders!” Georgie grins. “And ditto for Ghost Hunt U.K., and our favorite Melanie King!”

“Is she our favorite?” Jon whispers, leaning over Melanie to give Georgie a questioning look.

“I think so. I don’t know another one,” Georgie whispers back.”

Melanie glares at the camera.

“Anyway,” Jon plops back down in his chair, “donate to both Patreons for assorted extras.”

There’s a beat of silence, where both Jon and Melanie glance back and forth at Georgie expectantly.

“Oh! And follow both Instagrams!” Georgie snaps her fingers. “@what_the_ghost and @ghosthuntuk!”

“Seeeeeeeeeee yaaaaaaaaaa!” Melanie crows. The video cuts out as Georgie doubles over, covering a choking laugh with her hand, and Jon rolls his eyes.

—————

Sasha’s phone is ringing.

Now, logically, this shouldn’t produce a spike of sudden dread. But Sasha doesn’t call many people, outside of her parents and the doctor, and she’s lucky enough that spam isn’t common for her number.

She’d much rather text than call. So would nearly everyone she knows.

The fact remains, blatant in her mind, that the past few calls she’s gotten have been...

Not good.

Most recently on the list, Jon getting stabbed again, alongside one of his and Georgie’s YouTube friends. Melanie, right. Sasha’s only met her twice before—at the hospital because of the worms, and at Georgie and Jon’s flat because of Michael. Not exactly conducive environments for a friendship, but Sasha definitely liked what she’d seen of her so far.

Nonetheless, she digresses.

Her phone is ringing.

If Jon’s gotten stabbed again, she’s going to—

Oh. Hm.

That’s... weird.

“Hello, Basira?”

“I know this is kind of short notice, but—have you heard of Maxwell Rayner?” She sounds harried, brushing past Sasha’s attempt at formality.

“Uh—yeah, of course. Why?” Sasha tucks her phone in between her shoulder and ear, and starts to dig through the disorganized scatter of papers and files stacked around her desk. She just saw a statement about him, not that long ago—

“Who is he?”

“Twenty years ago he was a cult leader—uh, the People’s Church of the Divine Host.” It’s around here somewhere, she knows it. “Why?”

“Well, we’re on our way to arrest him.”

What.

“You—you’ve found him? That’s—well, I don’t know if it’s good or bad but it’s certainly something—“

“There’s a lot of sectioned guys here,” Basira interrupts, her voice starting to sound borderline frantic. “So, I thought I’d call you? Any advice?”

“Torches. Lots and lots of torches, as much light as you can.” What else could possibly combat spooky a darkness cult, besides light? Sasha can’t honestly think of anything else that would be terribly effective.

“We have tactical lights, those should work. You reckon it’s going to get dark, then?”

“If it’s going to get anything, it’s going to get dark—oh, come on.” Basira’s end starts crackling and breaking, because of course it does. Sasha slaps her phone against her hand a few times, as though that will get the sound to clear, before bringing it back to her ear. “Basira? Basira? You there?”

“Sasha, can you hear me? Hello?”

“Kind of, you’re breaking—“

The call cuts out with a frankly awful beeping sound. Sasha yanks the phone away from her ear.

“...Up.” She sighs, and quietly curses. “Martin!”

“Yeah?” He shouts back, probably from his desk.

“Keep an eye on the news for me, will you? Something’s happening with the People’s Church!”’

“Sure thing!”

“Thank you!”

“Anytime! It’s no trouble!”

“Thank you anyways!”

“Of course!”

Sasha snickers. They’re going to out-polite the royal family, one of these days.

She reaches for the tape recorder. Might as well get a statement in—oh. Yeah, she should’ve figured. It’s already running.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to eavesdrop?”

The tape recorder does nothing but whir in response.

“Ah, well.” She takes a deep breath, and lets it out, slowly. “Statement of Craig Goodall, regarding his explorations of an abandoned chicken and kebab shop in Walthamstow. Original statement given 20th October 2009. Audio recording by Sasha James, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute.”

“Statement begins.”

—————

“Um—here you go,” Martin steps quietly through the door, handing mugs of steaming, newly-brewed tea to Sasha, at her desk, and Basira, sitting in front of her.

“Thank you, Martin,” Sasha flashes him a grateful smile, while Basira murmurs her own “Thanks.”

Martin smiles back, though the expression is clouded by worry as he leaves, closing the door quietly behind him.

“I, ah, assume that it didn’t go too well?”

Basira is more rumpled than Sasha’s ever seen her, normally so perfectly meticulous. And she looks exhausted, bags under her eyes like bruises, slumped where she’s usually so proudly straight-backed.

“Mm. Depends on your point of view.”

“You don’t need to go into all the details,” Sasha briefly reaches forward to place a hand on her shoulder, but thinks better of it. “Just what you think we need to know.”

Sasha wants to know every single detail. Of course she does. This is Maxwell Rayner, emo extraordinaire, with a veritable stack of statements containing his name. This is knowledge she can use, more pieces of the puzzle.

She can’t afford for this to be a statement. The tape recorder’s already going, she can hear it—soft white noise trying to fade into the background.

(Basira would know. The second she saw Sasha in her nightmares, she would know.)

So this can’t be a statement. It should be that simple.

“The, ah, the People’s Church... kidnapped a boy. Twelve-year-old Callum Brodie. That’s not my department, I just got added to the case with the other sectioned officers once they found out Rayner was involved.”

Basira’s choosing her words carefully. Good, that’s good.

“As for you guys... well, the Magnus Institute probably doesn’t care about the police work part.”

“Can’t say my boss is too into that, yeah.”

“You were right,” Basira exhales. “It was very, very dark. A choking kind of dark.”

“I think I know what you mean,” Sasha says, subdued.

“We found Rayner in that darkness. Dark robes, scraggly white hair, blind eyes. Callum Brodie was tied to a chair by him. Looked like he was screaming.” Basira shakes her head.

Sasha can’t say she much likes thought of children getting caught up in... all this. There aren’t any statements from children that she’s seen, and the only featured kid so far has been Agnes.

Maybe she’d thought children were exempt from the supernatural, or something.

Clearly not. Poor kid. This is lifelong-trauma stuff.

“Rayner was in front of him... something was—it was pouring from his mouth. An inky... foggy darkness, dripping down his forearms and seeping towards Callum, kind of... oozing up his body.” Basira shudders, and Sasha can’t blame her one bit.

“One of the officers with me—he shot Rayner, and there was kind of a scuffle, but it was over.” She looks away, and softly says “Killed one of our guys, though. Awfully.”

“I’m sorry,” Sasha tries, but Basira shakes her head.

“It doesn’t matter now. I’m not going back.”

“What?”

“I’m done. At least, I’m done with active duty. I can’t—I can’t do that again. They’re covering up his death, making it look like he made mistakes he didn’t make.” She seems to force herself to relax. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, or where I’m going. I’m not even sure if I’m quitting,” she scoffs at herself. “But this? This, I’m done with.”

“I can hardly blame you,” Sasha sighs. “For what it’s worth, I’m still sorry it all happened.”

“I—thank you.”

“If you need us, we’re here, alright?”

Basira whips her head up, surprised.

“What do you—what?”

“Well, y’know. That’s kind of our job. All this supernatural stuff. I wouldn’t come back to the archives, if I were you—“

“—Yeah, I kind of figured—“

“—but us, as like, people? We’re here.”

“I—“ Basira stops, and seems to think about what she’s going to say. “Alright. Sure. Thanks, I think.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Basira stands, still more off-balance than Sasha’s used to seeing her, and leaves with a nod.

It’s all very unceremonious. It feels like it shouldn’t be. Basira’s life is... changed forever, it looks like. Seems like there should be more pomp and circumstance.

Sasha sighs, and raises a brow at the tape recorder on her desk.

“You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

She turns it off.

Chapter Text

“Heeeeeeeeeyo, hallo, hi-lo, and if we’re being really adventurous—hello!” Georgie waves. “And everyone please welcome our special guest: The Admiral!”

The special guest in question is draped over Jon’s shoulders like a scarf. He briefly looks up at the mention of his name, but is otherwise disinterested.

“He refused to leave the studio.” Jon scratches under the Admiral’s chin.

“Since he managed to be more stubborn than both of us combined—somehow—he gets to stay.” Georgie reaches over to pat his head.

“And once again, this is a requested episode from our friends over at the Magnus Institute,” Jon says.

“Sasha and Martin say hello! Tim says something that will get us demonetized,” Georgie laughs, while Jon rolls his eyes.

“And without further ado,” she drums her hands on the table, “I’m Georgie Barker—“

”—and I’m Jonathan Sims—“

“And welcome back to What the Ghost!”

The intro plays through, eventually fading as Jon’s Narrator Voice introduces: ”Distant Cousin.”

G: A play on words worthy of me.

J: Martin’s idea, not mine.

G: One day, I’ll corrupt you with my sense of humor. One day.

J: In fact, no! But in any case, I think you’ll be veeeerryyy interested in this man’s story.

G: Ohoho!

”Lawrence Moore came to the Magnus Institute to make a statement regarding, quote, ‘something that was not his cousin,’ Carl Moore, in 2001.

G: Graham? Is that you?

J: Its not about Graham specifically, but... yep.

G: You were right! I am interested!

J: Just you wait.

”They were never close, especially not as adults, but were often together as children. Moore believed that neither of them had much of an interest in reigniting any previous relationship between them.

G: Always a bit depressing when that happens, actually.

J: I believe it.

G: Oh, that’s right! You don’t have any cousins, do you?

J: Nope!

G: Dang! I haven’t seen a lot of mine in years, but I have a ton of them. Everyone used to have, like, a favorite cousin and then we’d all pair off. Cathy, if you’re out there, I miss you!

J: That must’ve made family reunions awkward.

G: I mean yeah, but they’re always awkward. Sorta like, ‘I love you all very much but I want to go home.’

J: Your parents are wonderful people, though.

G: Oh yeah, they’re the best. Oh! Shoutout to mum and dad!

J: Do they watch this?

G: Of course.

J: Hm. Well now I feel like I’ve disappointed them.

G: Hush, they think it’s awesome.

J: Mm. Well, hello Mr. and Mrs. Barker.

G: The Admiral also says hi! Don’t you, old sailor boy? Yes you do!

TA: [Purring]

”When Moore went to his brother’s wedding, there was something pretending to be his cousin. Every other family member insisted that it was Carl, but Lawrence Moore did not even recognize the man.

G: No fanfare about this one, huh? Just bam, replacement.

J: From Mr. Moore’s perspective, in any case.

G: But if everyone else’s memories are altered, like with Graham, then if there was a fanfare they wouldn’t remember it.

J: Sometimes you just need a secret fanfare.

G: [Laughter] A fanfare for one.

J: Could I get a fanfare for one, please?

G: With fries, if that’s alright.

J: And a Coke.

”In a panic, Moore left the wedding. Over the next few days, he nearly managed to convince himself it was nervous breakdown of some kind, but it still nagged at him.

J: I wonder if that’s an effect of whatever this creature is.

G: Mm?

J: Like—whoever is immune to the change, or whatever you’d call it, is always going to be affected by it. He wasn’t close to this cousin, hardly ever saw him, and the wedding was a single incident.

G: So you think the ‘nagging at him’ was an effect of the replacer, rather than just him being freaked out?

J: It would make sense. What else would the thing’s purpose be, other than to... scare people, or at least make them uncomfortable?

G: ...Hm. Would it follow like, a field? A radius of freakout? Or would it depend on how they knew them?

J: I think it’s only people who would have known them before the change, although how well they knew them doesn’t seem to matter. I wouldn’t think that a random man off the street would be affected.

G: No AOE damage, then. Arguably, that’s an ineffective ability.

J: But when balanced properly in a build designed for specific takedowns, it could do untold amounts of damage.

G: But versatility is better for PVP.

J: Tell that to sniper builds.

”He looked through old photographs. All of them were of Not-Carl, except for two that still showed the real one. But at that moment, there was a knock at the door.

G: I’ll bet a fiver that it’s Not-Carl.

J: I won’t be taking that bet.

”When Moore opened it, it was Not-Carl.

G: Called it.

”He eerily smiled, claimed he was sad to have seen Moore leave the wedding so early, and wanted to drop by. Moore was too scared to deny him entry. They simply sat in silence for the afternoon, while Moore panicked and Not-Carl smiled at him.

G: Eugh. Not only is it spooky—

J: [Sigh]

G: —spooky, it’s awkward.

J: I dread social situations at the best of times. This might just kill me outright.

G: I’d evaporate on the spot. Whoosh, I’m gone.

J: Dissolve like salt in water.

G: Poof.

”Not long after Not-Carl finally left, there came another knock at the door. A man introduced himself as Adelard Dekker. He was old, but apparently quite intimidating. He asked Moore if he knew the man who had left his house earlier that evening, to which Moore laughed and said no.

G: Do we know anything about this Adelard guy?

J: No, but he apparently was mentioned in a statement recorded by Sasha’s predecessor, who seemed to know him.

G: Interesting! But not enlightening.

J: Not really, no.

”Dekker seemed excited at that, and asked for any photos that hadn’t been changed. Upon getting them, he explained that he was, quote, ‘an exorcist of sorts.’ He had Moore help him bring into the house a large wooden box, set it in the living room, and then ordered Moore to go to his bedroom and to not leave until Dekker told him it was safe.

G: This is some Supernatural-level monster hunting. I’m into it.

J: Please don’t make me think about that show.

G: I liked it! The first few seasons, anyway.

J: But the inaccuracies, Georgina.

G: But the characters, Jonathan.

”At about three o’clock the next day, Moore finally heard another knock at his door. An hour passed, until Moore heard a bloodcurdling, unnatural scream of pure rage. In a panic, he threw open his door to run out of the house.

G: Idiot. Just do what the Dekker says! It’s not that hard!

J: Just wait just wait just wait!

G: Okay!

”As Moore ran, he got a clear view of his living room. Dekker was in the corner, stock-still, lips moving rapidly. Next to the now-empty box was a table, carved with an intricate, interweaving pattern. In front of it was Not-Carl, but as he truly appeared—a spindly creature, with too-long limbs, too many joints, and a horrifying face. It was wrapped with spiderwebs.

J: SEE!

G: THAT’S THE HYPNO-TABLE!!!!! THATS HOW IT—THATS HOW IT GOT ATTACHED TO THE MANY-LIMBED CREATURE OF REPLACEMENT? DEKKER TIED IT TO IT!

J: Using spiderwebs—

G: —WHICH IS SPIDER MIND CONTROL!

J: SEE!
G: THAT’S AWESOME!!! I never thought we’d actually get to see what was up with that table!

J: And now we know why the replacer took Graham—

G: —Because he bought the table, and it’s bound to it!

J: Yes!

G: [Breathless laughter] Incredible! I mean it’s awful, like for the victims, but that’s—that’s a mystery solved!

J: It is!

”Moore didn’t return to his house until the next morning. Dekker was gone. A grimy white van was in front, with two deliverymen carrying the table out.

J: Breekon and Hope, I’ll bet.

G: Paranormal deliverymen. Who would’ve thought?

J: It’s probably a very lucrative career.

G: I’m sure! But still.

”Mr. Moore hasn’t encountered anything since.”

The camera returns to the duo at their table. The Admiral has moved from Jon’s shoulder to lay luxuriously across the surface of the table, taking up most of it. Georgie absently strokes his thick fur.

“No followup for this one, other than that there’s a missing person’s report for Carl Moore. The photo is of Not-Carl, as is to be expected.” Jon hasn’t even bothered with papers for this one, but a screenshot of the report is briefly edited into the video.

“I’m still reeling from the hypno-table reveal, honestly,” Georgie shakes her head, her small smile amazed. “That why you were up all night for this one?”

“...Yes,” Jon admits. “I got a bit overexcited.”

“And with good reason,” Georgie pokes his shoulder. “That’s one mystery down, out of... hm.”

“Countless others?”

“Yup,” she grins. “But I think that’s all for today. Don’t forget to like, comment and subscribe to keep us from being personally victimized by a many-limbed creature of replacement! The same goes for Ghost Hunt U.K., currently in the middle of a revamp of its channel content.”

“Donate to our Patreon for blooper compilations, the Admiral extras,” Jon pats the Admiral, who doesn’t bother acknowledging him, “and more.”

“See ya!”

—————

“Uh, hello?”

Who is it? Tim mouths, as Sasha presses her phone to her ear. She shakes her head and mouths Basira.

He raises a brow, and Sasha just shrugs. Martin steps into the break room, mouth open to say something, but he stops short. Tim presses a finger to his lips, jerks his head towards Sasha, and then slides down the ratty couch to make room.

Martin sits down on the edge, a questioning expression on his face, to which both Tim and Sasha shrug.

“Hey,” Basira says. She sounds tired, but really, a lot better since the last few times they’ve spoken.

“Hi,” Sasha replies. “How’ve you been?”

“As well as can be expected,” she huffs a small laugh.

“That’s good.”

“It... it is, probably. I’m off active duty, thankfully enough. I’m a strictly administrative employee, now, sectioned or not. It’s a good position, pays well, and I’ve got access to quite a bit of useful information.”

“Oh! That’s great!” Sasha exclaims. Tim and Martin both silently try to get Sasha to explain via expression alone, but she only rolls her eyes and mouths for them to wait a second.

“I certainly think so,” Basira sounds like she’s smiling, but it quickly diminishes. “Daisy’s not happy, but... well, that’s... that’s actually a problem now, too. I figured I need to let you know.” She exhales.

“Daisy? Why...”

“She knows... something about all this. More than I do, at any rate. Whatever happened, when we were questioning you, it freaked her out. Badly. I...” Basira’s reluctance to continue is clear even through the tinny sound of the phone.

“I don’t know what that was, not for sure.” Sasha frowns. If this is somehow her fault—

“No, I could tell. You weren’t being—malicious, or something. But I can’t convince Daisy of that. And she...” There’s a faint thumping sound, like something hitting a pillow, or the edge of a couch. “I’m... I’m not going to go against her. I can’t do that.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Sasha says, because it’s true.

“But she’s done... she’s deadly, Sasha. And she’s gone off the grid, since I left active duty. We can’t find her. And when that happens, she’s after something, and it never, ever ends well. I can’t be certain, but I don’t want to take the chance—“

“—that it’s me she’s after?” Sasha finishes.

“Yes,” Basira sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“I’ll be on the lookout. I promise.”

“Please do. I’ll... keep in touch?”

“From a safe distance,” Sasha chuckles, despite the new threat against her life.

“Of course,” Basira laughs lightly, and it sounds genuine.

“Oh, one more thing, bit of an oddity—make sure you keep up with What the Ghost, alright?”

“I already do,” Basira says, “but I will.”

“Bye, then. Good luck.”

“I—thank you. Goodbye.”

And Basira hangs up.

“Well?” Tim bursts out. “What happened?”

“She’s staying with the police, but she’s doing desk work. And Daisy might be trying to kill me.” Sasha shoves her phone into her skirt pocket, voice even. Daisy might not even really be after her, anyway. And if she is—well. What’s she going to do about it? She’s a researcher and an archivist. A nerd. All of them are. Against a trained officer—and from Basira’s tone, one that’s done this before—how could they stand a chance?

Sasha has to do what she can. She has control over what she has control over, and nothing else. Daisy is a rogue element.

“I’m sorry, what—”

“I mean, good for Basira and all, but—like, murder? Daisy wants to murder you?” Martin sputters, incredulous.

“I mean. Probably. Pretty sure implication is that she’s pegged me as another, like, supernatural creature.” Sasha awkwardly tucks a stray flyaway hair behind her ear. There wouldn’t be any other reason for it.

So what, does this mean that Sasha’s another... force of evil nature, another monster under the bed?

She doesn’t feel like a monster. She... well, she feels like Sasha.

(A Sasha that’s being watched, but Sasha nonetheless.)

“Just because you—what, got her to tell you things? She thinks that’s deserving of murder?” Tim throws up his hands.

“Some people have a very black and white frame of mind,” Sasha shrugs. “And it was pretty rude—“

“You didn’t know, though.” Martin crosses his arms. “You couldn’t have known.” Sasha smiles wryly.

“Don’t think it matters to her.”

“It matters to us, though,” Tim drags a hand through his hair, heaving a sigh and falling back on the couch. Martin vigorously nods.

“Do you have anywhere you could go? Dunno about flats, Prentiss being considered,” Martin laughs, high and nervous. “But...”

“Honestly,” Sasha tugs at her ponytail, letting the first traces of real nervousness show on her face. “I think the archives are about as safe as it gets.”

She’d used her bad hair tie today, and her hair’s falling loose. She tightens it as best as she can, pulling two halves of the ponytail apart, even though she knows that it awkwardly scrunches up the front.

She’s not going to die. Not from a human threat, anyway. She just has too much to do. Too many people to protect, as best as she’s able.

“Once again,” Tim says, “consider good ol’ Jane.”

“The worms were—I mean, it was weird, I don’t think we put it together then, but—they were slower in the archives,” Martin points out. “When we moved into the tunnels, they were a lot faster.”

“So the archives were... what, suppressing them?” Tim frowns, but he looks to be considering it. “It makes sense, but I don’t think I like what that says about the archives.”

“We already know that the statements are... whatever they are,” Martin shrugs. “I don’t think it’s really that far out of the question.”

“We still have the archival cot,” Sasha stands, decisive. “I can grab my stuff from my flat, and then just... stay here, until we know it’s safe.”

“I don’t like it,” Tim shakes his head. “I really don’t. But—“

“There’s not really any other choice,” Martin finishes.

“Yeah.”

“I think that’s settled then,” Sasha claps her hands together. “Now, gentlemen? I think we have some archiving to do. Oh, and, thank you.”

“For what?” Martin quirks a brow.

“For being upset that I might get murdered,” she winks. “It was very touching.”

“If you get murdered, there’ll be no one to tell me just how beautiful my face is,” Tim groans. “And then where would we be?”

“I would do it, but then I’d be lying,” Martin shrugs and steps out of the break room, taking a mug with him.

Sasha cackles at Tim’s utterly betrayed expression.

“You walked right into that one,” she pats his shoulder as she leaves. “Like a cartoon character off a comedically invisible cliffside.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Tim gapes. “I’m off my game!”

“These are hard times for us all.”

“Oh, what a fool am I!”

“Now you’re just being overdramatic.”

“And what of it?”

—————

The tape recorder clicks on and begins to gently whir as Sasha sets down a stack of boxes with a heavy thump.

“Oh? You want narration?” She raises a brow at it.

“Fine. This is a bad habit you’re getting me into, though. Talking out loud. Someone’s going to get concerned. And what would you do then?” She pauses, cocking her head. “Nothing, I suspect.”

“Well. Might as well get this over with. Tim, Martin, if you ever listen to this, you’re going call me stupid, and an idiot, and a lot of other generally unpleasant things. And you’d be right.”

She sets one of the boxes down in front of her, on her desk, and easily peels off the barely-sticky tape.

“But y’know what? Screw it! I’m done,” she shakes her head, “I’m done with guesswork.”

She pauses.

“Actually, there’s still going to be a lot of guesswork. But that would be getting off-topic, and no one that might be listening is interesting in my incomprehensible musings.”

She opens the cardboard flaps, staring at the neat lines of tape.

“I’m done being careful.”

She traces a hand across them, searching for something without really looking.

“I’ve been trying to be careful with Gertrude’s tapes. I’ve brought them here now, since I’m living in the archives—that’s a thing now, by the way, don’t know if you knew that or not—and I’ve been going slow. Treating them like live bombs, sort of. But honestly? I don’t think that approach is getting me anywhere. It’s certainly not getting me anywhere fast.”

Her fingers stop on a single tape, almost of their own accord. She grabs it, sliding it out from between a hundred other identical tapes. It’s #0141010, but that doesn’t mean anything.

“If I’m being... guided, or whatever, then there’s something that I’m meant to be seeing. It’s all I’ve got to go on, anyway, so... bring it on, I guess.”

She laughs a little to herself.

“Tape marathon. Woohoo.”

She slides #0141010 into the cassette deck, and clicks play.

Chapter Text

“Check the group chat,” Georgie mutters. It’s fairly early in the morning for them, about eight. Although neither she nor Jon are decidedly morning people, Jon is currently managing to be functional.

Georgie, on the other hand, is barely coherent behind her dripping wet hair. Her colorful t-shirt’s horrible pun—‘I’m feline purrdy!’—is an amusing contrast to her current murderous disposition.

She trudges over to make them tea, brushing past Jon, who’s scrambling eggs on the stove.

“Why?” he asks. His phone is in the living room, and abandoning the eggs right now would burn them horrifically.

“My phone’s been going off nonstop,” she fumbles with the mugs, “something’s happening. But I don’t feel like checking.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

“We’re both on the group chat, it’s an us problem.”

“I simply couldn’t be so cruel as to abandon these poor eggs.”

“I can handle them.”

“Um. Can you?”

“I can be trusted for two seconds with scrambled eggs, Jonathaniel.” Georgie sets down the mugs and hip-checks him away from the stove, snatching the wooden spatula from his hand.

“Alright, alright,” Jon throws up his hands. She sticks her tongue out at him, a gesture he gladly returns as he heads towards the living room.

His phone is going off at an exponential rate.

broker: idiotic! idiotic I say. i love u but. idiotic

mkb: Yes!!! But actually are you okay though?????

broker: a dingus at her finest. @wtJon @wtgeorgie you are required to arrive immediately

sashayyy: all of these things are true

sashayyy: and yet I regret nothing

broker: you will

mkb: Tim please

broker: you’re not my dad

mkb: I could be

sashayyy: hm. something to consider

broker: don’t change the subject

sashayyy: cuz you’re my favorite subject

broker: I despise you

sashayyy: <3

wtJon: What on the Lord’s green Earth is occurring

broker: sash was an idiot, fool, and dingus

mkb: ^

sashayyy: ^

wtJon: Context please

broker: no

sashayyy: I binge-listened to gertrude’s tapes

broker: she binge-listened to gertrude’s tapes

wtJon: Ah

wtJon: Are you alive

sashayyy: no

broker: ohhhhhhhhhhh and did we mention that she’s being hunted for sport by a cop and is living in the archives now? bc that’s a thing

wtJon: You decidedly did not!

sashayyy: don’t worry I’ll be fine

wtJon: ...

sashayyy: oh ye of little faith

mkb: Okay I’m at the archives!!! Sasha you’re not allowed to be dead. I’ve brought food.

sashayyy: marty id die for you without hesitation

mkb: Good!

broker: anyway!!!! jon u and g need to get here like an hour ago

wtJon: Alright, we’re coming

He shoves his phone into his front pocket and steps back over to the kitchen, where he’s immediately assaulted by the smell of charred egg.

“Good news! I cannot be trusted for two seconds with scrambled eggs.” She turns around and grins from the sink, where she’s fruitlessly trying to scrape the pan clean.

“Better news! We’re leaving.” He grabs her wrist and starts to drag her out of the kitchen.

“When, where, and why?”

“Now, the Archives, Sasha binge-listened to Gertrude’s tapes and is calling a meeting or something.”

“My hair isn’t dry yet, and it’s cold outside.”

“You can wear my fluffy jacket.”

“Deal.”

—————

It is somewhat before most employees arrive, so the grandiose lobby of the Magnus Institute is empty as Georgie and Jon burst through the front doors. Rosie, a huge thermos of coffee in her hands, just nods at them as they pass by the front desk.

The Archives is in a predictable state of chaos when they open the door. A box of donuts is sitting half-eaten on someone’s desk, and paper statements and tapes are strewn across every surface—including the floor, which Sasha is sitting on. She is frantically sorting through the papers and tapes, seemingly trying to organize them after some fashion, but it keeps falling apart. Tim and Martin are impatiently hovering around her, trying desperately not to step on the scattered documents.

‘Frazzled’ would be an understatement—Sasha looks awful. A combination of a lack of sleep and an overdose on statements has left her with bags under her eyes like thumbprint bruises, and her long, heavy ponytail is sagging under its own weight, flyaway hairs falling over her face.

(Jon’s not sure if Sasha has mentioned before that the statements are draining, or if that’s another bit of spookiness—but he figures he’ll add a bit to The Jar just in case. Either way, the amount that Sasha owes after today will far outweigh his own.)

Tim runs up to them.

“Thank goodness, heavens, the Lord, all of that.” He drags them over to Sasha and Martin. Bemused, Georgie and Jon can only exchange a look and allow themselves to be dragged.

“They’re here. Now talk.”

“Gimme a sec,” she mutters. She tries placing a statement down in one pile, but shakes her head and throws it to the side. “Okay. Uh. Hold on, let’s go to my office, there’s more room to sit.”

‘More room to sit’ translates to ‘in a circle on the floor,’ but Jon’s done work in weirder places. Georgie sits cross-legged next to him, focused intently on Sasha. Martin and Tim look more concerned than invested, but there’s a certain amount of curiosity there still.

Sasha takes a deep breath, tucking her legs under her chin.

“It’s a lot of... scattered information, missing the context. The statements went over a couple of things, but I was being... drawn to specific ones. That was already happening but it got really intense just recently.”

There’s a tape recorder here.

Jon can hear it, a soft white noise in the background, almost indecipherable from the running air conditioning.

He can’t see it, but it’s on Sasha’s desk and she didn’t press play. It’s recording.

“Gertrude had... categories, of a sort? She made reference to, ah, the End, the Stranger, the Spiral, the Buried, the Hunt, and the Slaughter. I think there’s more, but that’s all I have for now. She sorted the statements into them, but she didn’t talk about them like... like you’d talk about categories. She talked about them like they were... I don’t know, beings? Code names, maybe. The tape that mentioned the End said that it could be ‘served.’” Sasha shakes her head.

Tim curses under his breath, while Martin gapes.

There’s more. Jon knows there’s so much more. Georgie’s breathing next to him is shallow.

She glances over at him, and smiles, nervous but determined. He gives her a little half-smile back, and she steadies.

“She also talks about... rituals. I don’t know what—what they mean, other than it’s for these... things, and Gertrude really wanted to stop them, or disrupt them or something. There was a meat one—“

“Ew,” Martin whispers.

“—and a Slaughter one on a warship, and... and one with a name. The Unknowing.”

Sasha glances over to Tim. There’s a new apprehension to her posture.

“It’s for the Stranger,” she says, voice quiet. “Which is.... a lot of skin and uh, replacement, and uh... circuses.”

Tim’s eyes narrow.

She mouths, later.

He nods, short and hesitant, but his expression doesn’t change.

“Gertrude said it needed to be stopped. She’s stopped others—the meat one, for example, but whatever is... guiding me towards statements, all of them are either about the Stranger, or about a ritual.”

“So we need to stop it,” Tim crosses his arms, decisive. “Then that’s that.”

“I’m worried, though,” Sasha exhales. She somehow manages to look even more exhausted. “What if the thing that’s guiding me isn’t... I don’t think it would necessarily have our best interests at heart? Considering the, ah, the watching, and all that.”

“I... I think—I think the enemy of my enemy would be my friend, so to speak,” Martin says, slowly. “Stopping this ritual—it can’t be a bad thing.”

“Those replacer creatures,” Georgie adds, “they’re horrible. Graham Folger, Carl Moore... it killed them. Altered the memories of everybody that ever knew them except for one. That’s... that’s a fate worse than death, even. To be utterly forgotten.”

“That’s certainly true,” Sasha acknowledges. “I do think we have to stop it. But we need more information. We need to know exactly what we’re dealing with, so we can properly deal with it. I don’t want to make any mistakes.”

“That shouldn’t be too much of a problem, considering that you have Jurgen Leitner in your tunnels,” Jon says. “Wait.” Wait a second, wait a second, what—“You have Jurgen Leitner in your tunnels?”

“We have Jurgen Leitner in our tunnels?” Sasha blinks. “Holy—we have Jurgen Leitner in our tunnels.”

“What the hell,” Tim throws up his hands, “and everything in between.”

“Spooky Jar,” Georgie looks back and forth between the two of them, worry and curiosity creasing her features, “So much Spooky Jar for both of you.”

“Is that the guy down there we couldn’t find, forever ago? When we were exploring? It was Jurgen—that was Jurgen Leitner?” Martin’s voice cracks, sharpened by incredulity.

“Apparently!” Sasha claps her hands, and stands. “So. Who’s up for a trip into the tunnels.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Jon stands, pulling Georgie up with him.

“Screw it,” Tim lets himself be pulled up.

“I mean—I mean, I guess?” Martin looks over to Tim, who’s looking resigned but determined. Martin schools his features from frantic nervousness to neutrality as best as he can.

“Well,” Georgie crosses her arms, “what’re we waiting for?”

—————

The tunnels give Jon a headache.

It’s worse, now that they aren’t running away from a horrific living hive of worms and her horde. There’s a deafening quality to the tunnels, like there’s something muffling his ears, and good Lord does his head hurt.

Sasha winces in front of him, reaching for her temple. Another for The Jar, then.

...There’s a tape recorder in her pocket. He doesn’t think she knows it’s there.

Georgie reaches for his hand, and he takes it, gratefully. Her pockmarked scars are reassuring against his own, for both of them.

He’s glad he doesn’t have a camera. He’s not sure what would happen if he did.

Once they’re far enough into the tunnels (and Jon doesn’t think about how he knows it’s far enough) Sasha stops.

Martin brushes a hand against her shoulder, a questioning look in his eyes. She smiles at him, shaky, but sure. Tim, behind her, playfully tugs on her ponytail. It falls even looser than it was before, and she scowls at him—but the effect is ruined, because she’s still smiling. Tim gestures for her to go on.

“Jurgen Leitner!” she shouts. It echoes oddly through the stonework passageways. “We know you’re here!“

There’s a long, long moment of silence.

Just as Jon starts to think that maybe they should turn back—maybe he’s not coming, maybe he’s not here at all—he can hear a pattering of footsteps.

Into Sasha’s torchlight walks a man.

Jon has thought a lot about Jurgen Leitner. The ultimate paranormal librarian, owner of every single unimaginably horrible book that’s ever been found. The reason for far too many deaths. Unnecessary deaths, of innocent people. Oh, and trauma too. Lots of that.

He looks pathetic.

Jon can feel his grip on Georgie’s hand tightening, and she squeezes back.

The man—Jurgen damn Leitner—is squinting in the torchlight, which Sasha is mercilessly shining on his face. He’s portly and halfway to balding, with graying blond hair that hangs down around his ears in strings. His clothes are worn in a way that implies they used to be very expensive, but now they’re fraying at the hems and coated in dust. There are two books in his hand, and they put Jon instantly more on edge than he already was.

“I, uh—please,” he stutters, and even his voice grates on Jon’s nerves. “I don’t want to be seen for too long. What do you want?”

“You might want to take a seat, Mr. Leitner,” Sasha says coolly, “because this is going to take a while.”

Shakily, he does so. He’s still clutching the books, but he holds them deliberately at his side, nonthreatening.

The rest of them slowly follow suit, mimicking their circle from before, but keeping a careful distance from Leitner.

Sasha pulls the tape recorder out of her pocket. She doesn’t bother seeming surprised to find it there.

“You’re going to answer every single question we have. Got that?”

Leitner heaves a sigh, but he nods. He glances at each of the torchlit faces surrounding him, lingering on Sasha. Jon doesn’t miss the man’s surprised double-take when Leitner makes eye contact with him.

“Statement of Jurgen Leitner. Recorded February 16th, 2017. Statement begins.” Sasha sets the tape recorder down in the center of their misshapen circle.

“You’re quite like her, you know.” Leitner muses. “Gertrude, I mean.”

“I don’t think I want to be.”

“She’d be disappointed, then. She liked you.”

“Too bad.”

“Mm. Your questions, then?”

Sasha glances around at the group, before turning back to Leitner.

“How long have you been down here?”

There’s a crackle of static from the tape recorder—no, from Sasha’s voice? No, the tape recorder—or was it both?

Either way, Jon startles.

No one else seems to notice the sound.

“Over twenty years, now. After the destruction of my library, I’ve been... reluctant to spend much time out in the open.” He glances around, furtively. “I am always being hunted. I left the tunnels for a full night exactly once, and was nearly beaten to death by an angry goth.”

Sasha laughs.

“Sounds like Gerard.”

“That was Gerard?” Leitner frowns.

“Gerard Keay, the Leitner hunter you’ve mentioned?” Jon asks.

“The very same,” Sasha smiles.

Jon chuckles. “My hero.”

Leitner eyes Jon nervously.

“What about the books, then?” Sasha directs the conversation back towards questioning. “Are they yours?”

“Far from it,” Leitner sighs. “I thought... well, I suppose I thought I could control them. For the greater good, you understand. Foolish of me. I wanted to understand them, harness them, learn their secrets... I sacrificed dozens of assistants in the attempt.”

Martin gasps, as Sasha stares in horror.

“Gertrude was little better,” Leitner shakes his head. “I suspect you will be the same, Archivist.”

Tim scoffs. “Then you don’t know Sasha.”

“I suppose I don’t,” Leitner concedes. “In any case... I have suffered for my hubris. My name is a curse, synonymous with the thousands of books that have ruined and ended thousands of lives.”

“As it should be,” Jon glares.

“Who exactly are you?” Leitner turns to him. “You’re no Archivist... but you have the eyes of a watcher, that’s for certain.”

“Jonathan Sims,” he smirks a bit, “YouTuber.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what that is,” Leitner sighs, “but whatever you are, you and Miss James are...” he trails off.

“What?” Sasha asks through gritted teeth. “What are we?”

“You are the Archivist,” Leitner says simply. “He is whatever he is. The Eye is fond of titles, I’m sure he’ll find one eventually.”

“The Eye,” Sasha raises a brow, “there’s another one. What are they? These, these things? Beings, events, gods, code names, forces of nature, what?”

“You don’t know? I’m surprised,” Leitner frowns. “I would’ve thought that Elias... no. No he wouldn’t have, would he?”

“Shut up,” Sasha glares, emphasizing every word, “and just tell us.”

“There are... entities in this world. Beings of vast, dark power. Well—perhaps it would be more accurate to say they are ‘next to the world’, rather than in it. Their true existence could not function in the universe we live in, at least not as it is now. They cannot control our world, so they will affect it in other ways—reaching out with their will to... change things.”

“So what,” Tim huffs, “the world as we know it is... under attack by evil gods? Out for entertainment, then? Playing with their food?”

“I would not call them gods, but it is as close an analogy as you could get, I suppose.” Leitner shakes his head, looking askance. “Every ‘paranormal’ or ‘supernatural’ event or creature is an extension of their will, in one way or another. It is... difficult to explain. A force of nature with a vague sense of will is as apt a description as you will get, I think.”

“What are they?” Sasha asks, flatly. “I know some. The Stranger, the Buried, the Hunt, et cetera—how many are there? What do they want?”

“There are fourteen, but it’s not really that simple. They’re interchangeable in many aspects, overlapping in others, but Robert Smirke’s Fourteen is the most accurate.”

Tim looks up at the mention of Smirke, but says nothing.

“They are: the Buried, the Corruption, the Dark, the Desolation, the End, the Flesh, the Hunt, the Lonely, the Slaughter, the Spiral, the Stranger, the Vast, the Web, and your own patron, the Eye. There are many other names, of course, but those are the simplest.”

“Our patron? Is that what’s happening to us?” Sasha asks, intent.

“Yes,” Leitner says. He’s nervously glancing back and forth. There is a glimmer of sweat by his temple.

(He wants to leave. He’s itching to leave, desperate to hide. The Eye is too close for comfort, here.)

Well, tough. Jon fixes him with his own intent stare. Leitner squirms under the weight of both Jon and Sasha’s eyes.

“The Magnus Institute, specifically the Archives, is a significant place of power for the Eye. Elias is at its head... and you are its Archivist, Miss Sasha, therefore you serve the Eye just as he did. As for you, Mr. Sims... you did this on your own, I’m afraid.”

“The hell does that mean?” Georgie narrows her eyes, squeezing Jon’s hand with a white-knuckled grip.

“It is not unheard of for a person to... draw the attention of an entity, for one reason or another,” Leitner hunches in on himself as five furious glares fix on him.

“That’s horrible,” Martin scoffs. “Now Sasha and Jon have to—to serve this—this evil thing just because Sasha took a promotion and Jon is Jon?”

“Essentially,” Leitner mutters, miserable.

“Stupid,” Martin mutters. Tim nods darkly in agreement.

“What’s done is done,” Sasha says. “We’ll deal with it as it comes. Now, what are the rituals? The Unknowing?”

“Is this really necessary?” Leitner whines. “I don’t want to be here any longer, he’s going to find me here.”

“Who? Elias?”

“Obviously Elias—I cant, I have to go—“

“Talk.”

Jon winces at the whip-crack of static in his ears.

“Fine,” Leitner whimpers. “The rituals—most of, ah most of the entities seem to want only—only two things. Fear, and to remake the world in their image. That’s what the rituals do.”

“And the Unknowing?”

“Gertrude dedicated her life to stopping these rituals. She died before she could stop the Unknowing. I don’t know when it will happen, but probably soon. Can I go, now?”

“One more question,” Sasha fixes him with her stare. He freezes. “Who killed Gertrude Robinson?”

“How should I know? I wasn’t there—“

“Who?”

“Elias, probably! She was going to destroy the Archives.”

There’s a murmuring as Tim and Martin express their shock and disbelief, but Jon and Sasha are focused entirely on Leitner.

Sasha hisses, “Why?”

“Too many reasons, Archivist, too many for me to explain succinctly, and I really must be going, I must be going now.” Leitner’s eyes are wide, like a prey animal caught in headlights. “There’s—there’s someone you could talk to, that’s not me. Please don’t talk to me again. He’s in—in America. You could probably find him through the Usher Foundation.”

“Who?” Sasha demands.

“Gerard Keay,” Leitner cries.

“Gerard is dead.”

“Why should that stop him?” Leitner stands, every limb trembling with terror. Without another word, he turns tail and runs.

Tim is the quickest. He nearly catches up to Leitner, but a wall slams out in front of him, nearly crushing him. It’s of the same stonework as the rest of the tunnel—as though that passageway was never there to begin with.

With a slew of sailor-worthy curses, Tim stomps back to the group, sitting stock-still in their misshapen semicircle.

With Leitner gone, Jon’s headache returns full-force. He bites back a curse of his own as his hands reach for his head of their own accord. Georgie grabs his face in both hands, forcing him to look her in the eyes.

She raises a brow, as if to say you okay?

Jon nods.

Martin stands. As Sasha goes to follow suit, she crumples, falling forward with a small gasp. Tim is quick to catch her.

“M’fine, it’s fine—“

“It’s not,” Tim sighs. “It’s really, really not.”

“I know.” She presses her face into his shoulder. “M’sorry.”

“Just... get on my back, yeah? I don’t want you to—to faint, or something.“

“...Okay.”

As they reach the trapdoor back into the Archives, Sasha pushes off from Tim, unsteady on her feet, but standing.

“Wait,” she huffs, “the—the table.”

“What table?” Martin frowns.

“Like, the hypno-table?” Georgie asks.

“That one,” Sasha nods, but the motion seems to make her dizzy. She lightly leans against Tim.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Concerned, Georgie glances over to Tim, who shrugs.

“Why—oooohhh,” Jon exhales. “The replacer.”

“It’s part of the Stranger, and currently bound to the table,” Sasha explains, “which is in Artefact Storage. And if the Unknowing is happening soon...”

“We need to check up on it,” Tim finishes, expression grim. “I’ll go.”

“Don’t you dare go alone,” Martin scoffs. “I’ll come too.”

“You two, look after Sash, alright?” Tim looks pleadingly at Georgie and Jon, who nod.

—————

“It’s gone,” Martin chokes. “How—how is it just—gone? It’s a really big, heavy table!”

Tim glares at the space where the Web’s binding table should have been.

“—And Artefact Storage is guarded twenty-four-seven, anyway, somebody should’ve seen it—“

“Somehow,” Tim turns to leave, “I think the Stranger can do what it wants.”

—————

Jurgen Leitner has never been more terrified in his life.

Not since his library was destroyed. Not since Gertrude died, killed not by an entity of indescribable power, but by a man.

He can feel the Eye. It prickles the hairs on the back of his neck, sending chills down his spine, raising gooseflesh on his skin. It is relentless, and it cares nothing for him.

The tunnels were safe. They were safe for so very long. But that Sasha girl learned and learned so, so fast, and the Sims boy is a wrench in every single plan—and with their Eyes on him, now Elias Knows, he Knows.

Jurgen Leitner is going to die.

He doesn’t want to die.

“Well. This is a surprise.”

He scrambles for A Disappearance—

“Reach for a book, and I will kill you.” Elias is hidden in shadow. Only his eyes gleam from the darkened tunnels, as cold as the drawl of his voice. Jurgen didn’t bring a torch, he’s never needed one, not here.

(He doesn’t want to die.)

“How much have you told them?”

“Enough.”

“Everything, then?”

“No. I didn’t have time.”

“It’s for the best. Still, you’ve told them far too much.” He steps forward. Jurgen can barely see his eyes, he’s too busy scrambling backwards, as far away as he can get—

“I can—I can help—I can tell you anything you want, anything about what Gertrude was planning, everything she knew—“

—His back hits the wall.

(He doesn’t want to die.)

“Somehow, Jurgen,” Elias chuckles, “I think you’ve done enough.”

He pulls out a gun. Three shots.

“Poetic,“ Elias hums.

Jurgen Leitner is dead before he hits the ground.

(His Eyes on other things, Elias does not see the tape recorder sitting on the ground, gently clicking off.)

(In a few days, Sasha will find an unlabeled tape on her desk, and she will know what it contains.)

—————

There is a series of pictures in a new Instagram post by @what_the_ghost. @sashjjjjjj, @martinkblackwood, and @timthestoked are all tagged.

The first is a group photo of Tim, Sasha, Martin, Georgie, and Jon, all squished into Tim’s couch. Tim is sitting on Martin’s lap, and Sasha is laying across everybody. From the angle of the photo, it was taken using a timer.

In the second, Tim sits on one end of the couch with Sasha curled up, her head in his lap. Her hair is loose, and he’s braiding small braids into it.

The third picture is of Tim’s kitchen. Martin is at a counter, stirring chocolate-dotted batter in a glass bowl. Over the stove, Jon is surrounded by pots and pans, each of them steaming with some food or other. He’s in the middle of saying something, and Martin is laughing.

The fourth is a selfie taken by Georgie, of her and Sasha. Sasha’s hair is scattered haphazardly with small, long braids. Georgie’s arm is around her shoulder, and both of them are grinning.

The fifth is of Tim and Jon, caught in some kind of argument, gesturing wildly and insistently at each other. Georgie is doubled over laughing in the background.

The sixth, and last, is another selfie taken by Georgie. Tim, Sasha, and Jon are all asleep on the couch, with Sasha draped over Tim, and her feet on Jon’s legs. Jon manages to be curled up in the tiniest ball possible in the corner. Martin is in an armchair to the couch’s side, giving the camera a thumbs up. Georgie is holding up a peace sign. They both look tired, but they’re nonetheless grinning at the camera.

The caption reads: “boy did we have quite the day. and yes, they’re arguing about fonts. <3”

Chapter Text

TIM
Are we finally doing this?

ARCHIVIST
I’m sorry. I swear I meant to talk to you earlier, I just—I got—I don’t know, scared, I think. I was scared. That’s—that’s on me. I should have talked to you.

TIM
Yeah, you should have, but at least you’re doing it now.

ARCHIVIST
I guess.

[BEAT]

[SOUND OF PAPERS SHUFFLING AND OBJECTS CLACKING]

ARCHIVIST
Here is... everything on the Stranger that I’ve found. It—it matches what you told me. I’m sorry.

TIM
(small, huffed laugh) I know you’re sorry.

ARCHIVIST
Honesty is the best policy.

TIM
It’s... I don’t want to say it’s okay, ‘cause I don’t know if it is or not, but at the very least I forgive you. Y’know?

ARCHIVIST
I—I don’t—

TIM
You’ve got a—a lot going on, with the spookiness and the statements and now all of—all of this, all of this whatever-the-hell. So I get it? Like, I’m upset and all, but I get it.

ARCHIVIST
...Thank you. For what it’s worth, I’m continuing to be sorry whether you want me to be or not, and I’m always here for you. If you want me to be.

TIM
What do I always say? Best boss ever.

ARCHIVIST
(laughter) My only competition is Elias, who is now officially a murderer. Twice over. It’s not that difficult of an achievement.

TIM
So he did... did like, actually kill Leitner?

ARCHIVIST
As far as the tape says, yep.

TIM
Damn.

ARCHIVIST
We could probably check, but honestly, I don’t want to see another corpse in the tunnels. I don’t even know if we could find it, actually.

TIM
Can I be a bit callous, here? And speak ill of the dead and all that?

ARCHIVIST
Good riddance to that man, you mean.

TIM
Yes, exactly! He sucked!

ARCHIVIST
I was this close to breaking his nose with my fists every time he spoke.

TIM
I know, right? I would’ve paid a lot of money to see you do that.

ARCHIVIST
I’ve never actually punched anyone before, though.

TIM
Maybe the spookiness will give you super strength.

ARCHIVIST
You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry!

TIM
Sasha James as She-Hulk! Coming this summer!

ARCHIVIST
It’s a nice thought, but I also think I’d rather die.

TIM
(teasing) Acting not your speciality?

ARCHIVIST
I’m a researcher and an archivist for a reason! My specialities apply to books, the supernatural, books on the supernatural, and not much else!

TIM
C’mon, we nerds gotta have some other hobbies.

ARCHIVIST
Like your kayaking?

TIM
Yes! Like my kayaking! You guys need to come with, one of these days.

ARCHIVIST
To kill my arms and get eaten by mosquitos? No thank you.

TIM
You’re no fun.

ARCHIVIST
Not one bit! At least, not outside.

TIM
Between you and Jon, one of you is going to end up a vampire. And when that happens, I’m going to laugh.

ARCHIVIST
Actually, that’s—

TIM
—Not how real vampires work, I know. Let me dream!

ARCHIVIST
I’m not sure what I would’ve done if Twilight ended up right about vampires. I think I would’ve just died on the spot.

TIM
I would immediately go get bitten by a vampire.

ARCHIVIST
Tim!

TIM
I just want sparkly skin! That’s all I want in life!

ARCHIVIST
Then bejewel yourself, and move on.

TIM
Inspirational.

ARCHIVIST
I know.

[BEAT]

TIM
Not to be a downer or anything... but do you think we should talk to Basira? About... all this?

ARCHIVIST
Yeah. She can help with Leitner, too, I think.

TIM
I don’t think Elias will let himself get caught that easily. Tape or no.

ARCHIVIST
I’m not planning on doing anything with that just yet. If Elias knew about that tape, he would’ve taken it himself, I’m sure. Which means—

TIM
We have a surprise on our side. Against a man who heads an entire Institute based on scary knowledge.

ARCHIVIST
Exactly. Right now, I think Basira can just help us figure out what to do with the body. If. Y’know. We can find it. Or even want to find it.

TIM
Yyyyyyikes.

ARCHIVIST
Yep! Georgie and Jon are talking to Melanie as well, I think.

TIM
Ghost Hunt U.K. Melanie?

ARCHIVIST
That’s the one.

TIM
We need to invite her to more things. She’s fun, and occasionally murderous, which meets my friend standards perfectly.

ARCHIVIST
No murder in my Archives, please.

TIM
Awwwww, but boss—

ARCHIVIST
—Yet. No murder yet.

TIM
(overdramatic sigh) Fine, I guess.

ARCHIVIST
(hah) Good to know you’re so down for murder, though. Might come in handy if Daisy comes around.

TIM
Oh, geez. Have you seen anything of her?

ARCHIVIST
Nope. I’d like to think that I’d, y’know, Know when she’s nearby, but since all of these entity things feed off of fear...

TIM
We can probably check the CCTV around the Institute?

ARCHIVIST
I don’t think she’d be that clumsy. She’s probably waiting for when I’m all alone and vulnerable and away from the Archives. Luckily, I have no intention of being any one of those things at a given time!

[BEAT]

TIM
Do you ever think... (vaguely frustrated sigh) Do you ever think that maybe we should... leave? Quit our jobs, figure everything out on our own, move to Switzerland or something? I’ve heard the Sound of Music is quite nice this time of year?

ARCHIVIST
I’ve thought about it. But... firstly, I don’t know if Switzerland will be safer than the Archives? Mostly because Daisy might see it as running. Which it kind of is.

TIM
I don’t—

ARCHIVIST
I also don’t know if we can.

TIM
That had better not mean what I think it means.

ARCHIVIST
We’re in a supernatural archive that serves an entity of fear, which is giving me weird powers. I don’t think it would let us just... leave.

TIM
Try.

ARCHIVIST
What?

TIM
Try. Fire me.

ARCHIVIST
...Nope. I just... I can’t.

TIM
...I can’t quit, either. (muffled cursing)

ARCHIVIST
Once again... I’m sorry.

TIM
Now this one’s definitely not your fault. I’m going to place blame squarely on Elias.

ARCHIVIST
Fair point.

[BEAT]

TIM
If you get murdered, I’m going to kill you. Slowly.

ARCHIVIST
I wouldn’t expect anything less. The murder weapon?

TIM
Actually, you know that medieval torture slash murder method of pouring molten gold down someone’s throat?

ARCHIVIST
That’s an aesthetic, I love it.

TIM
I thought you might! Everyone will join in, of course.

ARCHIVIST
Cool robes are necessary.

TIM
Obviously.

[SOUND OF A DOOR OPENING]

MARTIN
Are you talking about murdering Sasha?

ARCHIVIST
In the best way possible.

MARTIN
I’d really rather, like, not do that?

TIM
Are you saying you won’t participate? Maybe we’ll have to murder you along with Sasha.

MARTIN
Maybe you will!

ARCHIVIST
A murder party. What ever will the police think?

TIM
They’ll think it was awesome we murdered you two with molten gold.

MARTIN
Molten gold? Actually. That is kind of neat.

ARCHIVIST
I know!

TIM
(overlapping) Isn’t it!

—————

There’s a new Instagram post by @what_the_ghost. It’s a large glass jar, large enough to be considered a vase. It’s about three-quarters full of crumpled one pound and five pound notes, the occasional ten pound note, and a few pence. A sticky note has been stuck—and then taped—to the outside, simply reading ‘Spooky Jar’ in scrawling handwriting. The caption reads: “saving up for America! (we had to get a bigger jar!!)”

Most of the commenters are locked in heated debates over why exactly the Spooky Jar exists, and what the ramifications are for sufficient spookiness. The rest are assorted American What the Ghost fans, excitedly panicking over the sudden announcement.

Chapter Text

The video opens on the usual studio, except the table has been pushed aside. Sitting in their desk chairs are Georgie and Jon, alongside Sasha, Martin, and Tim, respectively in a much more eclectic collection of chairs.

“Hi there, and welcome to our very special Q&A episode—with our very special guests from the Magnus Institute!” Georgie introduces, both she and Jon gesturing grandly towards the other three. “I’m Georgie Barker—“

”—I’m Jonathan Sims—“

“Oooooh, can I do that too? I’m Sasha James—“

“Uh—I’m Martin Blackwood—“

“My turn! I’m Timothy St—“ Tim coughs. “—Nope, not happening. I’m Tim Stoker—“

“—and welcome back to What the Ghost!”

The intro plays through. When the name of the channel flashes onscreen, it has ‘Q&A Edition!’ added in parentheses underneath it.

“As you all should recall, we literally created a Twitter account just for this episode, since all of you were very insistent that using an Instagram story was an ineffective method.” Georgie brings her phone out from her pocket.

“We haven’t proofread these, by the way,” Jon adds.

“Not at all! I’ll sort through them as we go.” Georgie taps something on her screen with a thoughtful hum.

“That’s not terrifying at all,” Tim grins.

“Okay, okay!” Georgie waves for him to hush. “First question is from... CBee, who says: ‘Hi! Big fan of the show. I was wondering, how did all of you meet?’ Hi, Cbee!”

“Tim and I met years ago at the Institute,” Sasha pokes him.

“We were researchers! She had just transferred from Artefact Storage, I was bored out of my mind by my coworkers... it was meant to be!” He grins back.

“We were menaces, honestly,” Sasha laughs. “And when I got promoted, I took Tim with me, and Martin got transferred by surprise.”

“It was terrifying,” Martin says solemnly.

“But it was also meant to be!” Tim cheers.

“And we’re even worse menaces now,” Sasha smirks.

“Beautiful,” Georgie claps. “As a lot of you know, Jon and I met many, many years ago in uni. I was repeating my first year for medical reasons, Jon was...”

“...Being awkward,” Jon smiles wryly. “And absolutely terrified of making friends.”

“We ended up sitting next to each other in English, and did the thing where you just kind of... click, yeah?” Georgie elbows him. “That professor despised us.”

“I’ve got my literary opinions, and they cannot be stopped,” Jon shrugs.

“Oh honestly, same, some of those books they forced us to analyze—“ Sasha turns to him.

“—Nuh-uh. Nope. Don’t you dare get Sasha started.” Tim waves his arms in a ‘stop’ motion.

“I always liked poetry analysis in high school,” Martin offers. Sasha and Jon both glance at each other with vague disgust, but Georgie lights up.

“Heck yeah! Robert Frost all the way, thank you.”

“I’m something of a Keats person myself,” he smiles.

“Boooooooo,” Sasha whispers, and Jon nods in solidarity.

“Shel Silverstein was my entire childhood, actually,” Tim crosses his arms.

“Horrendous,” Sasha shakes her head.

“Moving on from you horrible poetry Scrooges,” Georgie reads the next question from her phone, and suddenly smirks. “This one’s from BobaSoda. ‘To Jon: Is that actually your real voice and accent?’”

“Uh—what?” He sputters. “Of course it is? I mean there’s—there’s the, the Narrator Voice, but that’s just dramatics, and I’m not—not changing my accent or anything for that.”

“It’s alright—I thought he was faking it too, when I met him,” Georgie chuckles.

“Well I was overdoing it a bit then,” Jon winces, “because of... the aforementioned awkwardness, but I haven’t for years.”

“I cannot believe that you just sound like that,” Tim shakes his head.

“What do you want me to do about it? It’s my voice?” Jon glances around at everyone, incredulous.

“Next!” Georgie shushes the group. “From Extra Peppermint: ‘When and how did you guys start What the Ghost? And for the Archive crew, how long have you worked for the Magnus Institute?’“

“It was Georgie’s idea,” Jon points to her.

“It was my idea,” she grins. “It was... what, our last year of uni?”

“Think so,” Jon nods.

“Both of us were getting good degrees but had no idea what to do with them. I’d wanted to start a channel or podcast or something for a while, anyway.” Georgie ruffles his hair, and he scowls and slaps away her hand. “Seemed natural that we’d do it together.”

“Nearly got a job at the Magnus Institute, actually,” Jon says, to which Tim mouths ‘yikes.’

“I’ve been at the Magnus Institute for... mmm, four going on five years, maybe?” Sasha hums. “I worked in Artefact Storage before going into research, but I was only there for like, three months. It wasn’t fun.”

“Speaking of Artefact Storage, if there are any skeptics watching this, find a way in there.” Tim shakes his head. “There’s a crap ton of blatantly supernatural stuff just sitting gathering dust.”

“It will kill you, though,” Martin points out.

“Isn’t that part of the fun?” Tim winks. Martin rolls his eyes. “Anyway, I’ve been there five years-ish. Was a researcher from the start until we transferred to the Archives.”

“I’m going on... seven years now, actually,” Martin says.

“Really? Nice!” Tim reaches over to give him a high-five.

“Yeah, I worked in the library for a really long time.”

“Can’t believe Martin beats us all in seniority,” Sasha gapes in exaggerated shock.

“Does that mean Martin should have been the Archivist?” Georgie muses, faintly holding back another grin.

Martin gasps. “No!”

“Something to consider,” Tim strokes a nonexistent beard.

“Absolutely not,” Martin insists.

“If you say so,” Georgie brings her phone back up. “Alrighty, this one’s from Attack of the Max: ‘How long would you say it takes to put together a What the Ghost episode?’”

“Ah... depends,” Jon frowns, thoughtfully. “A more complicated one—like the Hill Top Road ones—those will take up to a week, but something simpler, or sillier will take maybe three, four days.”

“We need a day to record, and before that, Jon needs to put his research all together, and afterwards I need to edit,” Georgie adds. “Like you said, it depends on the episode’s complication. And how messed up we want our sleep schedules to be.”

“Cough, Sasha staying late at the Archives, cough,” Tim mutters.

“It doesn’t count if you just say the word ‘cough,’ Tim,” Sasha elbows him. Tim dramatically falls back in his chair with a cry of pain—almost actually falling backwards.

“Next up! From The Nerdiest Ant, ‘What exactly does working in an archive entail?’” Georgie reads out.

Sasha, Tim, and Martin glance at each other awkwardly.

“Thaaaaat’s... certainly a question,” Sasha laughs, hesitantly.

“Do you—do you not know how an archive works?” Jon turns to raise a skeptical eyebrow at them.

“My degree’s in anthropology,” Tim turns up his hands, helplessly.

“I mean, I worked in the library, and thought it would be... similar enough?” Martin shrugs.

“I’m a trained researcher,” Sasha throws up her hands. “I was just—I don’t know, offered the job, thought ‘yay, promotion, how hard can it be?’”

“So,” Georgie says, gleefully, “along with all the drama surrounding the archives. Along with all the supernatural encounters we’ve had, and the treasure trove of information on them buried in the archives—not a single one of you actually knows how to archive?”

“Incredible,” Jon shakes his head in mock disappointment.

“We’re doing fine!” Sasha exclaims, looking over to Tim and Martin. “Right?”

They both shrug.

“Well that’s just lovely,” Georgie giggles. “From Allie Carson, ‘Tell the Admiral I say hi!’ He says hi back, I promise, but he’s currently hiding under my bed.”

“It’s because Tim’s here,” Jon explains.

“I just want him to love me,” Tim groans, “is that too much to ask?”

“Probably,” Sasha pats his shoulder in sympathy. “He’s a cat.”

“Ugh.”

“Next up!” Georgie claps her hands. “From ArtificialBrilliance: ‘How did you guys get into the paranormal? You’ve all built your careers out of it.’”

Everyone winces.

“Now that’s a question,” Tim drawls as Georgie sets her phone down, tentative. “Boy, is that a question.”

“Uh... I’ll go first!” says Sasha, vaguely frantic.
“My family actually has a huge history of being ghost hunters, exorcists, crazy theorists, you name it. I clearly fell towards the crazy theorist end of the spectrum,” she lightly laughs. “My parents were a bit quieter in that respect, but they raised me with all of this family history, and I’ve been fascinated by it my whole life.”

“I just needed a job,” Martin sighs. “I honestly thought the Institute was a bit of a charlatan until I got transferred to the Archives.”

There’s a beat of slightly strained silence as Georgie, Jon, and Tim glance at each other, over to Sasha and Martin, then back again.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Sasha whispers.

“...It was bound to come up at some point anyway? I think? At the very least, I’d like to think that to make myself feel better.” Tim seems to steel himself, though against what, it’s unclear. “A short summary. Very, very bad skin circus.... killed, ah... people. Bad. I do not recommend the circus, and I do not recommend urban exploration.”

Sasha places a hand on his arm, while Georgie mumbles ‘duly noted.’ Martin looks over at him, concerned, but Tim shakes his head.

“That’s about it. Your turn,” Tim gestures broadly over in Georgie and Jon’s general area.

“...Um... also very bad, I found a Leitner, as a child?” Jon winces. “Specifically, of the ‘spider mind control’ variety.”

“...A lot of things just made a lot more sense about you,” Georgie leans against his side.

“I haven’t been trying to be subtle about hating both spiders and Jurgen Leitner.” Jon offers.

“No, not at all,” Georgie exhales, accompanied by a small laugh.

“What a horrid man,” Sasha scoffs.

“My turn, I guess,” Georgie sighs. “I... uh, met a risen corpse who told me the meaning of death, and I haven’t been able to really feel fear since?”

Tim whistles, low.

“That a good thing, or a bad thing?” Sasha raises a brow. “Also, is it spooky?”

“...Are. Are you implying that I might need to add to the spooky jar?” Georgie blinks. “Oh goodness, I might need to add to the spooky jar.”

“Is that how you’re able to keep trying to cook?” Jon gently elbows her. “You can’t be afraid of burning the flat down?”

“Listen,” Georgie insists, but she’s laughing now. “I’m very careful, and I’m trying my best.”

“I think we learned a valuable lesson today,” Sasha’s hand is still on Tim’s arm, but she’s smiling. “We all need therapy.”

“Therapy shmerapy,” Tim waves it off, to which both Sasha and Martin whip around to face him, incredulous expressions on their faces. Tim only shrugs unapologetically in response.

“Moving on!” Georgie slaps the table. “From SurrealSupernaturalist: ‘Worms—hot or not? Monsterf—ers, do not interact. Love the show, by the way.’ Why, thank you kindly! As for worms...”

“On one hand,” Tim muses, “Jane Prentiss pre-worming wasn’t too bad. On the other hand, that avoids the question, which applies to the worms specifically. To that, I say absolutely not.” He pulls up his shirt sleeve, gesturing wildly towards the pockmarked scars trailing up his arm. “I look like Swiss cheese because of those things!”

“I second that motion,” Jon raises a hand. “I am also startlingly reminiscent of Swiss cheese.”

“You guys need to be more open-minded,” Georgie chides. “I vote hot. The squiggling... the blinding pain from burrowing into my flesh... beautiful.”

Jon stares at her in abject horror, joined by Martin. Tim is busy holding back a burst of laughter behind his hand.

Sasha nods, solemnly. “The worms understand me like no one else ever will.”

Tim can no longer succeed in holding back his laughter. Jon just seems very disappointed.

“Why,” Martin groans. “Just. Why.”

“Okay! Okay, we’ve got another question,” Georgie gestures for everyone to shush. “From Blue Rebel, ‘For Georgie and Jon, how do you manage the channel with only the two of you?’ By trying our very best.”

“Our production value is... iffy,” Jon adds, “but for the most part, we’re just in our home studio, so mics and camera configurations aren’t an issue.”

“We don’t need a big film crew like Ghost Hunt U.K. tends to,” Georgie continues. “Putting together and editing the videos is what takes the longest, but we do it because we enjoy it, yeah?” She looks over next to her at Jon, who nods.

“Next up! From EchoGecko,” Georgie reads, “‘Do you record and post every supernatural incident you encounter?’ That depends! We try to, though.”

“If we don’t have our camera on us, there’s nothing we can do, but we’ll always make an attempt to have some evidence,” Jon explains.

“We’ve got statements for all of ours, I think,” Sasha adds. “And if not, it’s probably on tape somewhere.”

“Now, from Rubix, ‘Outside of YouTube and archiving, do you all have any other hobbies?’” Georgie cocks her head, thoughtfully. “Jon and and I did a lot of music in uni, although we don’t have as much time for that now. I do like to go out and try different foods and things.”

“Reading, mostly,” Jon shrugs. “Documentaries, that kind of thing. We both play video games—and before you ask, no, we’re not making a gaming channel. That’s too much editing.”

“You do cooking, too!” Georgie pokes him in the shoulder. He pokes her right back.

“I don’t think that counts as a hobby.”

“It totally does. I also do reading,” Sasha raises a hand. “And I got really into fencing when I was a teenager. Haven’t practiced in way too long, but I’d like for the record to state that I do, in fact, know how to use a sword.”

“I’ve watched her fence,” Tim grins. “It’s awesome.”

“Thank you,” she rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “I think that’s it for me. Archiving has taken over, a bit.”

“Mostly—mostly writing, for me,” Martin says. He seems rather shy about admitting it on-camera. “I write my own poetry. And bake. There’s that too.”

“Hell yeah!” Georgie cheers. “I want to read it, send it to me immediately.”

“Hm. Y’know, I don’t think—“

“I’m absolutely certain that it’s good.” She puts her hands on her hips.

“Its really not, but—“ at Georgie’s glare, Martin throws his hands up in defeat. “Okay, okay!”

“Good!”

“Unlike the rest of you, I actually enjoy going outside,” Tim crosses his arms and raises a judging eyebrow at everyone. “Kayaking, hiking, rock climbing—you name it, I’ve probably done it.

“I just prefer the basement air,” Sasha shrugs.

“Y’know, I think it’s, ah, difficult to find the time,” Martin fiddles with the hem of his sleeve.

“One word for you,” Jon scowls. “Bugs.”

“I go on walks sometimes?” Georgie offers. “Does that count?”

“You’re all going to die twenty years too early from a vitamin D deficiency,” Tim shakes his head in abject disappointment. “I do also play video games, though.”

“Join us!” Georgie claps her hands together.

“I will, I will,” He laughs.

“Alrighty... oh.” Georgie suddenly smiles at her phone screen. Jon peeks over her shoulder, and immediately regrets it.

“Nope,” he hisses. “Absolutely not. Georgina, don’t you dare.”

“The people want to know, Jonathan!” She grins.

“What? What dark secret are you two hiding?” Excitedly, Tim leans over Martin and Sasha to make direct eye contact with Georgie and Jon.

“The question,” Georgie winks at him, “is from Micah D. He asks: ‘Sorry if this is a strange question, but are you the same Jon and Georgie from the Mechanisms?’”

“No.”

“Yes!” Georgie cackles, “and thank you very much for asking, because I promised Jon I’d never be the one to bring it up.”

“What are—“ Sasha starts, intrigued.

“I’m googling it, I’m googling it,” Tim interrupts. “Holy—oh, this is awesome. This is awesome.” he passes his phone over to Sasha.

“No!” She grins. “How could you possibly keep this a secret?”

“I am a changed man,” Tim sighs with wonder as Sasha gives Martin the phone. His eyes widen.

“What? You were—you were in a band?” Martin gapes.

“We were in uni, it was a phase,” Jon’s voice is muffled, because his head is in his hands, attempting to cover as much of his face as possible.

“Like you didn’t love every second of it,” Georgie flicks his ear. He doesn’t even try to retaliate, only hunching further in on himself.

“‘Ostensibly folk, but but folk run over by a steam-powered bus driven by Homer,’” Martin reads off of Tim’s phone. “Holy crap.”

“Guess I know what I’m listening to tonight,” Sasha says, and Tim nods furiously in agreement.

“Please. Do not. I beg of you.” Jon’s protests are entirely ignored.

“Next question! From Bourgeoisie Bird,” Georgie reads, “‘To the Archives team: Have you filed an HSE complaint yet? I’d call that an unsafe work environment for sure.’ Ha!”

“We would, if there wasn’t a severe chance of us getting murdered in the process,” Sasha shrugs.

“Moving on! Next question. It’s from Moon of Dune: ‘What exactly is the Spooky Jar?’”

“Hard to say,” Jon raises a brow at Sasha.

“Some things are spookier than others,” she says simply, “and so are some people.”

“Either way,” Georgie adds, “we’re using it to save up for a trip to America, and some of the lovely hauntings you have over there.”

Sasha nods. “Very exciting!”

“Neeeeext up... from DoodleDear—hm. Interesting.” Georgie hesitates. “The question is: ‘When will we be seeing Michael again? I watch every video hoping he will reappear.’ I don’t like that.”

“I thought monsterf—ers weren’t supposed to interact,” Tim playfully glares at the camera.

“I rather hope that we don’t see him again ever,” Martin frowns.

“He did stab me with his finger. That is something that happened.” Jon appears decidedly unhappy with this turn of events.

“Sorry Michael, but YouTube’s just not your thing,” Sasha shakes her head. “Try MySpace. Or Facebook.”

“Aaaaand... yeah, I think that’s everything!” Georgie shoves her phone into her jean pocket.

“We’ve done it!” Tim cheers. “My second official YouTube appearance, are you proud of me, Mum?”

“Success!” Sasha claps her hands.

“Can we say the thing?” Tim whips around to face Georgie and Jon, a pleading expression on his face.

“Absolutely,” Georgie laughs.

“I don’t see why not,” Jon shrugs, but he’s smiling a bit.

“Awesome! Don’t forget to like, comment, and subscribe, to keep What the Ghost, uh, safe from Michael, who hopefully wasn’t just summoned by all that.” Tim does jazz hands, because he can.

“Um—donate to their Patreon for bloopers, the Admiral, and more,” Martin mimics Tim’s jazz hands, albeit much more hesitantly.

“And follow our Instagram, @what_the_ghost!” Georgie interjects.

“See ya!” Sasha salutes the camera, and the video cuts out.

—————

Comments 4k

ArtificialBrilliance
IM SORRY I DIDNT THINK THAT WAS SUCH A LOADED QUESTION AAAAAAAA
-
What the Ghost!
That’s alright! You’re perfectly fine, it was a good question! 💞 -G

Anxiety Subway
We stan ppl who categorically refuse to go outside. Me too

ashley b
someone get these people THERAPY and maybe cookies or smth

thermostat
psst make a gaming channel anyway
-
What the Ghost!
No. -J

ThatRavenclaw42
how did I not put together that Georgie and Jon were the same Georgie and Jon from the mechs. what. how. why. what

sydney the 2nd
I hope ms sasha knows that i love her

Ghost Hunt U.K.
guess I’ve got some monster asses to beat. and. if and only if. you’re very, very lucky. some hugs to give.
-
What the Ghost!
I’d die for you without hesitation
-
Ghost Hunt U.K.
is that Georgie or Jon?
-
What the Ghost!
Why can’t it be both

birdie lee
my mechs conspiracy validated,,,,,,, amazing

miz
jon honey we love that you’re growing out your hair. it’s really nice. but please use conditioner
-
What the Ghost!
THATS WHAT I KEEP TELLING HIM -G

Lizzie Mitchell
Everyone in this comment section is so casual abt the fact that these people literally have actual proof of the supernatural just posted on their YouTube channel. Anyone gonna acknowledge that? Anyone? Hello?

The Riskiest Biscuit
martin seems so SWEET but I feel like he could also kill me. discuss.
27 REPLIES

GeekGirl17
the fact that Georgie can’t feel fear is metal actually. go girl

CurtainCall
we just want to see handsy mike is that so wrong???? I’d gladly let him stab me with his fingers tbh
-
What the Ghost!
Why. -J

Fool of a Took
Love their commitment to moving on from uncomfortable topics as fast as they possibly can

tinkerbell-ish
tim is right actually.

Dennis L
I’m having such a hard time reconciling the Mechs with What the Ghost and yet here we are

Dandelion
logically I know the Admiral is just hiding but still. I miss him

Chapter Text

“What is UP everybody,” Georgie shouts while spinning in her desk chair. “I’m Georgie Barker—“

Jon appears tempted to join in, but ultimately decides that someone needs to be the sane one today. “—and I’m Jonathan Sims—“

“And welcome back—“ Georgie catches herself on the table edge, and blinks dizzily. “—to What the Ghost!”

“Please don’t make yourself nauseous.”

“Too late!”

The intro plays through, eventually fading as Jon’s Narrator Voice introduces: ”Robert Smirke and Categorization: A Hypothetical.”

The camera returns to the studio, breaking the pattern of the majority of their videos.

“That’s such a long title,” Georgie wrinkles her nose.

“Well, what else were we supposed to call it?” Jon frowns.

“Literally anything else?”

“I could make it longer, if you’d like.”

“Don’t.”

“I could! I just might!”

They stare at each other for a long moment, which stretches into an awkwardly long moment. Georgie blinks first.

“Ha!” Jon slaps the table.

“Fine, fine,” Georgie rolls her eyes. “Anyway,” she turns to the camera, “hello, my dears! Recently, we and the Archive crew have stumbled across a few methods of categorization for supernatural events. We thought they’d be interesting to go over on-camera, and maybe see how well they fit our own observations.”

“Robert Smirke’s Fourteen has been the most widely accepted format since its conception,” Jon continues, “but a few others have tried their own theories.”

“Why are we trying to categorize the supernatural, you might ask?” Georgie thoughtfully strokes a nonexistent beard. “Because we can.”

“We’ll briefly go over Smirke’s Fourteen first, and then in more detail once we’ve run through the others,” Jon adjusts his glasses. “The categories are: the Buried, the Corruption, the Dark, the Desolation, the End, the Eye, the Flesh, the Hunt, the Lonely, the Slaughter, the Spiral, the Stranger, the Vast, and the Web,” he lists. “Most of those are self-explanatory. For the vaguer titles: Corruption refers to anything disgusting, the Desolation is a lot of fire and losing what you love, the Eye is the fear of being watched, the Spiral is madness and delusion, and the Web is spider mind control.”

“Once again,” Georgie holds up a hand, “we’ll go over those in more detail later.”

“Interestingly,” Jon says, “you can find evidence of categorization as far back as the ancient civilizations. They didn’t have as clear of a picture as we do now, but a lot of animistic beliefs and ancient pantheons, such as a quite few Ancient Greek and Egyptian gods, are all evidence of some kind of awareness of the supernatural. Set is a god of chaos and war, for example, and might be an early example of the Slaughter or the Spiral. Ares could also be considered the Slaughter, Dionysus would be the Spiral, Zeus and Poseidon the Vast, Thanatos the End, among others. The three Fates might be a prototype version of the Web—with the strings, and all. It’s equally likely that there have been Norse and Celtic examples, as well—Morrigan as the Slaughter, Odin the Eye, et cetera.”

“Myyyythology!” Georgie does jazz hands. “That’s really cool, actually.”

“It’s fascinating to see the patterns go so far back,” Jon agrees.”

“Okay! So! What about a few more modern classifications, outside of Smirke?” In a show of intrigue, Georgie sets her chin in her hand and quirks a brow.

“A few of his associates made their own attempts. Henry Roberts, for one, created a much simpler version of his own: Mind, Body, and Soul. Each of Smirke’s categories would fit one of these three, or a combination of them.” Jon explains.

“So... the Flesh would be Body?”

“Exactly. And the End would be Soul, the Corruption would be a Mind-Body combination, the Web would likely be all three, and so on and so forth.”

Georgie frowns. “But, the Vast doesn’t... really fit any of those. I mean, maybe Mind? I guess? But that would be more madness and Spirally stuff.”

“Neither does any kind of bloodlust, or claustrophobia—at least not neatly,” Jon agrees. “That’s why Roberts’ was eventually considered obsolete.”

“It’s a good idea, but ultimately... nope,” Georgie nods.

“In direct contrast—a student of both Roberts and Smirke, George Gilbert Scott, also made his own attempt—which was infinitely more complicated.” Jon winces.

“Oh?”

He sighs. “There are two hundred and seventy-three categories, according to Mr. Scott. I will not be reading them all out.”

“Please don’t,” Georgie laughs.

“Just know that they exist. Moving on from that,” Jon briefly smiles, “Melanie knows all about this one—the attempted categorization of supernatural events by ghost hunters and investigators.”

“You’re going to summon her just by bringing this up,” Georgie exclaims, “and then you’re going to argue about it for all eternity. And I’m going to be left alone with only the Admiral for company as my two best friends duke it out over ghost categories.”

“And yet you love us anyway,” Jon muses.

Georgie throws up her hands in defeat, because she can’t deny that.

“According to modern sources, nearly every supernatural encounter can be sorted into being either a ‘ghost’ or a ‘demon.’ ‘Demons’ are self-explanatory, usually dealing in possession, and ‘ghosts’ are sorted into their own categories depending on their visibility, presence, actions, and manner of death.” Jon looks like he’s in physical pain as he explains this.

“Such as!” Georgie interjects. “Poltergeists, Grey Ladies, orbs, ectoplasm, assorted mists, and undefinable temperature differentiations!”

Jon sighs, heavily and pointedly. “Notice how absolutely none of those had anything to do with any of the specific and well-established categories previously mentioned?”

“Mellie, are you proud of me?”

“What about replacer creatures?” Jon drags a hand through his hair. “What, are they ‘shapeshifters?’ If they’re simply shifting shape, how they affecting memories? How would the demon-or-ghost outlook fit spider mind control? The answer is it doesn’t! It does not!”

“I bet she’s proud of me.”

“Moving. On.” Jon says through gritted teeth.

“Is it Smirke time?” Georgie, accurate to the topic at hand, smirks.

“Yes! Yes it is.” Jon pulls out a very large stack of paper from underneath his chair. “Now, Tim provided us with a complete anthology of everything that Smirke has ever done, multiple biographies, and his entire Wikipedia page, along with every book in the Institute’s library that even vaguely mentions him.”

“And you read all of it, didn’t you?” Georgie laughs, rolling her eyes.

“I did! And it was fascinating, but the majority was ultimately irrelevant to the video.” He drops the stack of papers onto the table with a heavy thump. “So, we’re going to go straight to what we worked on yesterday.”

“Alrighty!” Georgie claps her hands together. “Time for a slightly more detailed rundown of Smirke’s Fourteen—and which videos we have that clearly seem to align to a specific category.”

“To reiterate,” Jon adds, “the categories are: the Buried, the Corruption, the Dark, the Desolation, the End, the Eye, the Flesh, the Hunt, the Lonely, the Slaughter, the Spiral, the Stranger, the Vast, and the Web. To start, let’s look at the Buried,” he folds his hands. “From what we can tell, it’s anything representing claustrophobia, the fear of being buried alive, choked, and so on.”

“We don’t have any videos with this one,” Georgie says, “yet.”

“Next would be the Corruption, which is filth, rot, bugs, disease,” Jon shudders, “all of that.”

“Worms!” Georgie cheers. “Our infamous worm videos! That’s all Corruption! Our lovely Swiss cheese scars—those are corruption too! Oh, and the mosquito one—Blood Bag.”

“Unfortunately. The Dark is self-explanatory—fear of the dark, and what might be in it.”

“The End of the Tunnel, with the photography people.” Georgie frowns. “Still don’t understand what exactly those... creatures... were doing, besides being terrifying, but they’re definitely the Dark.”

“The Desolation,” Jon continues, “is fire, but also the fear of losing what you love.”

“The Hill Top Road videos all have elements of this. Possibly Agnes Montague, too, but nothing concrete there.”

“Next is the End—the fear of death, and its inevitability.”

“Nothing there yet,” Georgie nods.

“The Eye—the fear of being watched and known.”

“Nothing I could find, but who knows?”

“The Flesh,” Jon grimaces. “Meat. Bones. Nasty stuff.”

“That’s The Butcher’s Window,” Georgie grins, “and our good friend Jared the Bone Man.”

“The Hunt is harder to define—but the fear of being hunted down, of being prey.”

“Nope, not yet.”

“The Lonely,” Jon frowns, ”is not a fun one. Fear of isolation, of not being cared about by anyone, all of that.”

“No, and I can’t say I particularly want to,” Georgie exhales. “It seems sad, more than scary.”

“The Slaughter, which is violence without reason, bloodlust, pain, and war.”

“Grifter’s Bone, which is pretty neat. And you and Melanie got stabbed by a Slaughter ghost.”

“Explains the nasty scars,” Jon winces. “Next up is the Spiral—madness, delusions, distortions, lies, et cetera.”

“We can’t agree on whether Arachnophobia is the Spiral or the Web, so we’ll let you guys decide,” Georgie winks at the camera. “One of the Hill Top Road ones is also vaguely Spirally—Burned Out, I think. And our good friend Michael belongs here!”

“He sure does,” Jon rolls his eyes. “The Stranger is the uncanny valley, creatures just to the left of human, something inexplicably off. Also skin. I know we have plenty of these.”

“We do! The Anglerfish, Across the Street, Still Life, and Distant Cousin. The replacers, especially.”

“The Vast is the fear of heights, the great unknown, expanses, and falling,” Jon continues.

“Just one,” Georgie says. “Page Turner. With the Leitner.”

Jon scowls. “And last, the Web. Spider mind control. Fear of manipulation, and also spiders.”

“Lots of Hill Top Road here, along with Thought for the Day, and possibly Arachnophobia. And that’s about it for everything, I think,” Georgie finishes.

“It is.” Jon nods.

“Okay! What do you all think?” Georgie asks, turning back to the camera. “Are these good categories? We sure think so! Next time you encounter the supernatural, please consider using these,” she smiles.

“We’ll be implementing them in videos from now on, as well,” Jon adds.

“Don’t forget to like, comment, and subscribe, to help us keep categorizing our existential terror!”

“Donate to our Patreon for bloopers reels, the Admiral, and more.”

“Follow our Instagram, @what_the_ghost!” Georgie waves. “See ya!”

The video ends, transitioning to the outro.

—————

There’s a new Instagram post by @what_the_ghost. The first picture is a selfie, taken by Georgie, from a fancy restaurant booth—of herself, Melanie, and Sasha, all grinning and laughing. @sashjjjjjj and @ghosthuntuk are tagged. The second is a picture presumably taken by Martin, of Tim and Jon on the couch of Georgie and Jon’s flat. They’re holding gaming controllers and shouting angrily at the out-of-frame screen. @martinkblackwood and @timthestoked are both tagged. The caption reads: “girls night out/boys night in!”

Chapter Text

“Ciao, lovely viewers!” Georgie smiles. “I’m Geo—oh no! Darling, no—“ She reaches out, and at that moment, the camera topples.

The view now sideways, Jon can be seen laughing behind his hand.

“Cat!” Georgie exclaims. “What do you have against the camera? You could’ve broken it!” She picks up the Admiral, currently a yowling, ginger fury. Hold him upwards, she points a finger at his nose, scolding. “Don’t you dare do that again.”

“Time-out for the boy,” Jon smiles.

“That’s right,” Georgie huffs, and walks out of frame, presumably to exile the Admiral from the studio.

Jon stands, and goes over to pick up and readjust the camera.

“Are we keeping this in?” He calls over to Georgie.

“Sure, why not!” She shouts back.

After a moment of general shuffling and re-preparing, Georgie and Jon manage to get back into position, sheepishly laughing.

“Well, that was an interesting start!”

“That’s one word for it.”

“Hush. Anyway, back to our regularly scheduled program! I’m Georgie Barker—“

”—And I’m Jonathan Sims—“

“—And welcome back to What the Ghost!”

The intro plays through, filtering out as Jon introduces: ”Drawing a Blank.”

G: Oh! This is a Trademarked Magnus Institute Requested video, by the way.

J: You can’t... you can’t trademark things without actually registering a trademark.

G: Who says?

J: ...The law?

G: Meh. I don’t care.

J: If you say so.

”In September of 2013, Chloe Ashburt was an art student working part-time at a Fanton’s department store. Being artistic, she was particularly fond of the displays.

G: As in... the mannequins?

J: Yes. The mannequins.

G: Hm.

”Her manager, Lana Billings, usually allowed her to be involved in setting them up. That autumn, Ms. Ashburt was especially enthused to be working on a circus-themed display, and spent particular care on the ringmistress.

G: Circus... mannequins... oh, I am not liking this combination.

J: Already have an idea of where we are on the Smirke Chart?

G: Stranger, obviously. Circuses, for one, and mannequins seem to fit the nearly-human thing quite well.

J: I thought the same.

G: The mannequin’s coming to life, isn’t it.

J: No spoilers.

G: I’m calling it right now! That mannequin is coming to life and committing murder!

J: We’ll see...

G: It’s hardly a mystery, Jon! What else is the mannequin going to do? Dance a little jig?

J: I mean—

G: No! This is a supernatural investigation YouTube channel, and our audience is here to get scared out of their minds! The mannequin is coming to life and doing some homicide.

J: Well—

G: Homicide, Jon.

”After closing, Ms. Ashburt was given permission to spend time drawing the figures and poses of the mannequins for practice, before locking up. She spent hours doing so, and thus immediately noticed when the ringmistress mannequin was replaced.

G: ...The replacer creature?

J: I think this is a different sort of creature, but of the same ilk.

G: Just had a cursed thought.

J: Oh no.

G: Humannequin.

J: I hate that.

G: It’s a human mannequin. Flesh and bone and everything, but it looks exactly like a mannequin. No face, rotating joints, the works.

J: This had better not be a self-fulfilling prophecy.

G: Oh geez—

J: If I ever meet a humannequin in real life, I’m blaming you entirely for it.

G: As you probably should.

”No one else could tell the difference, so despite how ‘disconcerting’ the mannequin was, there was not much she could do about it. Until, one night—after Ashburt had left—the mannequin was found completely disassembled and reassembled in a strange and disturbing position, wearing new clothing that strikingly resembled a clown.

G: MMMMMMM WHAT DID I TELL YOU.

J: No homicide, though.

G: YET.

J: Yet.

”Ms. Billings believed that Ms. Ashburt was innocent, but she was no longer allowed to stay alone after closing. Closing was assigned to a rota on the Fanton’s team, excluding Ashburt. Whoever last closed would reportedly come to work the next day nervous and jumpy.

G: Because they’re getting attacked by a murderous circus mannequin.

J: Well—

G: A murderous. Circus. Mannequin.

”Eventually, a day came where Billings had to lock up herself, and Ashburt convinced her to let her draw while she did so. When she went to the aisle with the ringmistress... the mannequin was gone.

G: Uh-oh! Oh no! Oh goodness! Oh geez! Oh my!

J: Like a bad horror film.

G: Oh, is she about to get cheaply jump scared? C’mon murderous circus mannequins, we thought you were better than this.

J: Disappointing. We came here expecting deep and meaningful psychological horror and what did we get?

G: [Scoff] Cheap scare tactics used by the plebeians of the film industry.

J: We will be leaving extremely scathing reviews.

G: On every platform.

”Confused, she looked around until she heard Billings’ voice calling for her, hoarse and strangled. She dialed 999, prepared to call at a moment’s notice.

G: WOAH, WHAT?

J: I know!

G: I’m so impressed! They always forget to call!

”She approached the storeroom where Billings’ voice was coming from, and attempted to turn on the lights, but they failed to work. The light from the door illuminated a tall, thin figure. It began to move—

G: WHAT DID I SAY. WHAT DID I SAY.

J: Still no homicide, though!

G: ONCE AGAIN. YET.

”—with steps that were jerky and stiff, coming towards her step by step. It placed its plastic finger on her lips dripping blood, and hushed her—despite lacking a mouth.

G: Oh, I do not like that.

J: No! Not at all.

G: Well, c’mon, keep going. We gotta get to the homicide. It’s got blood on it! There was homicide!

J: You... might be disappointed. Maybe.

G: Are you sayin... there’s actually no homicide? Like, that would be very good, but also vaguely disappointing.

J: No, there’s homicide. Just... background homicide.

”Ashburt claims that the next thing she remembers is the police—having managed to press dial before dropping her phone.”

The camera returns to the duo at their studio table.

“And that’s it?” Georgie whips around to face Jon, incredulous.

“Lana Billings,” he reads, “was found strangled and partially skinned. There’s your homicide.”

“Oh, poor woman,” she winces.

“Indeed. Oh,” he looks up, “something that’s also probably important—although I don’t much like the implications—there was a white delivery van by the service entrance to the store.”

Georgie raises a brow. “Breekon and Hope?”

“Almost definitely.”

“Yikes.”

“So, definitely the Stranger, yeah?” Jon says, and Georgie vehemently nods. “I don’t much like the influx of Stranger stories we’re getting.”

“You heard it here first, folks,” Georgie turns to the camera. “Stay far away from mannequins, intricately carved tables, friends and family members you don’t quite recognize, and circuses.”

“It might be nothing,” Jon clearly doesn’t think it’s nothing, “but it also could be something. I know a lot of you bought fire extinguishers after our worm episode? Think of this like that.”

“Yep! Aaaaaaaaaaaaand, I think that’s everything?” When Jon nods, Georgie continues, “Remember to like, comment, and subscribe to keep What the Ghost from tumbling headfirst into another worm situation. Or war ghost situation. Or Michael situation. Or—“

“Donate to our Patreon for blooper compilations, the Admiral extras, and more,” Jon pointedly interrupts.

“And! Follow our Instagram, @what_the_ghost!“ Georgie rolls her eyes, but grins towards the camera. “See ya!”

—————

sashayyy: @wtgeorgie @wtJon ARRIVE

wtgeorgie: yyyyyyeeeeesssss ?

wtJon: What

broker: let it be known. I hate this.

mkb: Seconded

wtgeorgie: well now I’m concerned

broker: you should be

sashayyy: who’s ready for some investigative journalism

wtgeorgie: now I’m really concerned

wtJon: Always

wtgeorgie: NO

sashayyy: hell yeah eye pals let’s go

mkb: Absolutely not!!!!

wtJon: Ready when you are

broker: :(

wtgeorgie: not without me you’re not

sashayyy: okok but in actuality. I have a lead on the location of a gal who’s Desolation-y and she might be able to get us some more info. idk what she knows on the unknowing thingamajjg but she’ll definitely know something about something

wtJon: Who is she?

sashayyy: jude perry. she’s come up in statements before, something to do with agnes montague, and another with the burning of gwydir forest

wtgeorgie: ugh I remember thatttt I was so upset it was such a pretty place

wtJon: Alright I’m up for it

sashayyy: yes !!!! ok, the plan is you and georgie come along with your camera and such, we can run it like an interview for wtg if you’d like

sashayyy: marty and timothée have to stay back at the archives

broker: :(

mkb: We’re keeping watch on Elias, and making sure he doesn’t try to stop you guys

broker: but we’re not happy about it

mkb: No! No we are not

sashayyy: he’ll get suspicious tho if all of us are gone

wtJon: And right now, the two of us are mostly unconnected to the archives. It makes sense

mkb: Just because it makes sense doesn’t mean we have to like it

broker: ^

wtJon: Fair

sashayyy: we’ll be fineeeeeeeee georgie’s highly capable, jon’s quick, and I know how to swordfight

broker: you’re not bringing a sword tho

sashayyy: and?

broker: ...

mkb: We don’t. We don’t even know what Elias can do actually

sashayyy: I’m not getting any spooky feedback but presumably it’s similar spookiness to ours? eye things. knowledge and whatnot

broker: are you suggesting we have a psychic and/or omniscient super boss

sashayyy: I mean. just look at him. he’s a creep.

broker: actually he instantly knew once we brought cake into the archives so there’s that

wtgeorgie: did he just show up randomly like ‘can iiiiiiiiiiiiii have a slice’

mkb: That’s exactly what he did it was mildly upsetting

sashayyy: is mission judith platypus a go, then ?

wtJon: Yes

broker: unfortunately. yes

sashayyy: lets go !!!!!!!

Chapter Text

There is a black screen, with white words in a spooky font scrolling across it. They read: Warning: Disturbing Content. (Sorry!)

The video opens on Sasha and Georgie standing in a London park, in light coats and scarves. The skyline is just visible beyond the carefully-planted trees and other vegetation, and a few bystanders walk on the path behind them, faces edited to be blurred.

“Hello, and welcome to a very rare and special episode of What the Ghost, where we actually go and conduct a real interview!” Georgie announces, gesturing broadly. “I’m Georgie Barker, and our guest star is...”

“Sasha James, from the Magnus Institute,” Sasha grins.

“And Jon is behind the camera!” True to Georgie word’s, Jon’s hand appears in front of the lens, waving.

“Now, Sasha, as the lady of the hour, care to let us know who we’ll be interviewing?” Georgie asks.

“A woman named Jude Perry—according to the Smirke Chart, affiliated with the Desolation. She’s appeared in a number of statements in our Archives,” Sasha explains.

“We’ll see you there!” Georgie waves, and the video cuts out.

It cuts back in on the visage of a muscular Asian woman, much shorter than Sasha beside her, with dark hair chopped short. She’s wearing a white tank top, despite it being April. Presumably, she is Jude Perry.

As the camera focuses on her face, it seems to warp and darken and almost crumple at the edges—before it sharpens into stark clarity.

She’s laughing—a slow, lazy chuckle.

“All I want to know is if you’d be willing to answer a few questions,” Sasha’s voice is polite, but she’s clearly a bit put-off.

“You’re very rude, Archivist,” Perry smiles.

“I’m not stupid,” Sasha snorts.

“It’s polite, to shake hands.”

“I’m afraid I’ve lost my manners, then. I don’t think that’ll be much of a problem for you?” Sasha raises a brow.

“And you brought a camera crew, too,” Perry sighs, “How presumptuous. You two over there are just as rude, by the way.”

“I’m not in the mood to care all that much,” Georgie responds from out of frame.

“You lot must be fun at parties, then,” she cocks her head, and chuckles again, low and drawling.

“I apologize for not understanding the joke,” Sasha says, stiffly.

“Rather funny that you came to me, is all,” Perry only shakes her head, smile still on her face. “Survival instincts like these, you should have been dead months ago. But then again, it’s not exactly my loss, is it?”

“So you’re going to kill me, then?”

“I mean... I could. If you want me to. I really, really want to. I wouldn’t hesitate, actually,” Perry appears disturbingly thrilled. “The flames consuming your flesh and rot would be incredibly satisfying.”

“But you won’t. Why?”

The camera flickers, and is forced back into clear sharpness.

”Don’t do that.” Perry growls.

“Do what—“ Sasha frowns, “—oh, oh, that. Sorry.”

Perry scoffs. “I actually will kill you, if you keep going on like that.”

“I—okay. Okay. Are you willing to answer a few questions, then?”

“Will it get this over with? I don’t much like your kind. You and your cameraman.”

“Excuse me?” Jon’s voice is a little muffled, by nature of him being behind the camera’s microphone.

“Our kind? The, ah, the Eye?” Sasha asks. Perry‘s laughter is harsh.

“You don’t know anything, do you? Bouchard hasn’t told you a single thing, and now you’re begging for scraps from me?” Perry brushes a nonexistent tear from her eye. “Now that’s just rich.”

“Elias is a prick, and probably a murderer, and seems to be the reason I’m in this mess in the first place. I hardly want to talk to him,” Sasha raises a brow.

“We can be agreed on that, at least,” Perry snorts. “Bouchard’s a prick.”

Georgie snickers.

“There we go, common ground. Now please. This is an interview. Can we do the actual interview?” Sasha is starting to get frustrated.

“Fine, fine, whatever,” Perry rolls her eyes.

“Okay. Were you involved in the burning down of Gwydir Forest, last year?”

“We didn’t burn down all of it, but yeah. Always willing to help out a friend.”

“A friend?”

“You don’t know? Nikola Orsinov.”

Sasha shakes her head. “Sorry, I don’t think we’ve come across her yet.”

“Orsinov, Orsinov,” Jon mutters. “I’ve heard that before. Not a Nikola, and not from a video, or anything—I don’t think—but didn’t he have something to do with a circus?”

“Right, right, Gregor Orsinov,” Sasha nods. “Gertrude mentioned him.”

“Like a lamb to the slaughter,” Perry chuckles.

“Yes, yes. We know. And... you were a friend of Agnes Montague, right?”

“We’ve been trying to put together her story for ages,” Jon adds.

“You shut up about Agnes. You don’t have the right to talk about her.” Perry’s rather jovial mood is vanished in an instant, and the camera does its best to darken at the edges before it forcibly clarifies.

“I rather think we do,” Sasha says, “considering how many statements she’s appeared in thus far.”

Perry growls. “I will melt your flesh from your bones and pull out your beating heart and roast it over the spit—“

“Mhmm, sure, you’ll kill me,” Sasha crosses her arms. “But you haven’t. I’ve given you ample opportunity. Is something stopping you? Your... your being, your god? Can you kill me at all?”

“I can tell you right now that both I and the Lightless Flame want nothing more than to take you by the neck and turn your vocal chords to ash, and then boil out your eyes through your brain,” Perry drawls, relishing each syllable of the threat. “And I’m more than capable of it. But I won’t—if you keep in line. Consider it a favor.”

“I assure you, I don’t want any favors from you—“

“Not for you, for Elias,” Perry rolls her eyes. “If he did kill Gertrude, that means we all owe him one.”

“I... okay. Alright. Fine. So tell me why you—”

“Try to compel me again, and you’re really not going to like what happens next.”

“If you’re finished being difficult,” Jon interjects.

“I’m really not,” Perry grins.

“We should probably just go,” Georgie says, still out of frame. “This was a bad idea, anyway.”

“No, no,” Perry rolls her shoulders, “I think I’ll keep going. I’ll give you some... advice.”

“Advice?” Sasha asks, dubiously.

“Yes, advice. For... a newbie, to all of this.”

“Okay, then. What’s your advice.”

“No, you have to make it official,” Perry shakes her head in faux disappointment. “Take our your little tape recorder, say your little words.”

“Fine. Statement of Jude Perry, regarding... some advice. Recorded direct from subject, April 24th, 2017. Statement begins.”

And Jude Perry talks.

She talks about the exaltation of pain, of fire and flame, how she relishes burning.

And the story of herself, much younger, a banker with a tendency towards life’s vices, throwing other people’s money on the pyre and loving the thrill of it—until she’d burned everything she could, and could burn no more.

Until she found Agnes. And through her, the Lightless Flame made an offer.

And Jude Perry talks about how she first burned a man to death, a man with everything to lose, and she kept burning, until eventually she burned herself. To be with Agnes, to be with her god.

“There,” Perry says, once she’s finished. “Happy now?”

“One more question, then we’re done here,” Sasha seems shaken, but she’s doing an impressive job of keeping her composure.

“Ugh. Go on.”

“When did it happen?”

“I met Agnes in 1989, and completed my transformation in 1991.”

“Forgive me for saying so, but you don’t seem very dead,” Sasha places her tape recorder back into her front pocket.

“Wax is remarkably easy to mould,” Perry grins, and her face melts. In a truly horrific fashion, her features fall lax, halfway to dripping onto the grass, until she reaches up with her hands and reshapes herself.

The camera jolts as Jon takes a step back, with a sharp intake of breath.

Sasha winces, but she doesn’t look away.

“Oh, come on,” Perry laughs, looking around at the three of them. “You didn’t like my favorite party trick?”

“Not particularly,” Jon mutters.

“I don’t know what kind of parties you’re going to, but I don’t want to be anywhere near them,” Georgie huffs.

“Spoilsports.” Perry turns back to Sasha, sparing Jon a single glance. “Feed your god. That’s my advice. Feed it, or it will feed on you.”

“It’s not my god,” Sasha insists. “I didn’t choose to serve anything.”

“Didn’t you?” Perry smirks.

“Actually, all this started happening rather randomly,” Jon adds. “That’s sort of why we have no idea what’s going on.”

“Oh. Well, then I can’t help you with that.”

“Figures,” he sighs.

“Is there anything you can help with, or should we just go?” Sasha crosses her arms.

“Of course there’s more,” Perry scoffs.

“And you aren’t going to tell us, are you?”

“Of course not,” she grins, predatory. “I... might know someone else more willing, though. At least, I know where he is. Calls himself Mike.”

“I know a lot of possible Mikes,” Sasha frowns.

“Weird Scar Mike.”

“Ah, got it. Where is he?”

Perry cackles. “The audacity! I’m not going to just tell you. Not for free.”

Sasha sighs. “What do you want? I can’t imagine you want money, or that I have any information you need.”

“I don’t want much at all, really,” Perry smiles. “I just want you to shake my hand. You were so rude, before.”

“I’m not stupid,” Sasha scoffs. “You’re literally made of boiling hot wax.”

“I promise it won’t hurt,” Perry places a hand on her heart, voice dripping with sickly sweetness.

“Once again. I’m not stupid.”

“Them you’ll never know where Mike is, I guess.”

Sasha cringes. “Could we like, fist bump? Would that work?”

“You just got to feed your great big blinking blob, I’ve got to feed my own,” Perry shrugs. “Shake. My. Hand.”

“I—I didn’t—“

“You did. Now come on, before I lose my patience.”

Tentatively, Sasha reaches for Perry’s outstretched hand. With a vicious grin, she grips it.

Sasha screams.

“Hey—hey! Stop it, stop it—“ The camera jerks, and Jon’s voice can barely be heard—

“Shove off,” Georgie threatens, “you’ve had your fun, let her go—“

“Oh, I’m not done yet,” Perry releases Sasha , and she falls back, clutching her hand to her chest.

The camera is suddenly very, very close to Jude Perry’s face as she yanks Jon closer.

“You too, cameraman. I don’t appreciate being recorded without my consent.”

“Let him go! That was not part of the deal—“

“Get your hands off of him—“

The video cuts out.

After a moment, it cuts back in on a picture of Jon and Sasha, each holding up a thumbs up for the camera. Sasha’s right hand is completely bandaged, matching Jon’s wrist, below where his sleeve has been cut off.

The words that scroll across the screen read: Don’t worry, the idiots are fine!

—————

Comments 14k

Maximillian
HEY NO SERIOUSLY ARE YOU GUYS OKAY I AM CONCERNED

OpenSaysMe
nobody:
absolutely no one:
the video once we see jude: 4K quality time

the mothiest man
anyone else rlly turned on by that

Kit’s Cat
jude perry: I really really like fire
jon and sasha: ok
jude perry: *burns them*
jon and sasha: *pikachu meme*

2300EmpireToday
OKAY OKAY EVERYONE. I’ve done my research. Elias Bouchard is the Head of the Magnus Institute. Which means the Gertrude they mention is Gertrude Robinson, the previous Head Archivist before Sasha. So what was Gertrude involved in? I can’t find any info about her, it’s like she’s been wiped clean off the planet????? And why did Bouchard murder her, if he even did????? Why was that good for the evil people???? How does that relate to Sasha???? I am so utterly confused

anatomicallyincorrect
rip to georgie, the last bastion of sanity

help I’ve fallen
power move: posting the video anyway, without jude’s face blurred, after explicitly not being given consent. and including the part where she explicitly does not give consent. love that for you guys

trash gremlin the Third
I need someone who will talk about me like jude perry talks about fire

CrowbarGuy
Hey, why are they talking about the Smirke categories like they’re gods. Why are they doing that

ArtificialBrilliance
brb writing down the usernames of everyone who’s thirsting after jude perry so I can block them

Lizzie Mitchell
Is anyone going to tell the police that this lady just confessed to murder on camera? Because I think one of us should do that

Fool of a Took
ohhhhhhhhhh so THIS is what the spooky jar is for.

CurtainCall
her voice tho,,,,,,, her muscles,,,,,,,

luna dear
THEORY TIME BUCKLE UP. Gertrude was a demigod of some kind for all of these other gods of fear and whatnot. and she was able to hold all of them in control. but Elias Bouchard murdered her, for reasons unknown, and now all these gods are unleashed upon this world. and Sasha is the new demigod who needs to put them back. like a reverse Pandora’s box!!!!!

ashley b
wtg and friends stop getting injured challenge

grubsong
some of you people need Jesus

sydney the 2nd
sasha’s exasperation at every word that comes out of jude’s mouth is everything to me

—————

Honestly, Martin had been expecting a bit more action on Elias’ part.

Sasha’s been missing from the Archives for over an hour, now. For a man that’s obsessed with the presence and propriety of every employee in the Institute to the point of ridiculousness, he sure is lax on the Archive team.

Like—Tim hasn’t bothered with dress code for months now, and the worst he’s gotten from Elias was a disapproving look as he passed him in the lobby. Martin himself has forgone button-ups entirely—his comfy sweaters are much nicer to work in, and are teeeeechnically dress code. Technically.

Is it because they can’t be fired, or quit? Martin had thought that at least Elias would have the power to... ‘release’ them, or something, but maybe not. Maybe the Eye-thing that has them all bound here has trapped Elias, too.

Although—if that was honestly the case, Elias probably would have warned them all. Probably. And... probably wouldn’t have murdered Gertrude. So.

Either way—as Tim’s been saying, it’s radio silence from Elias’ end. Which really, really isn’t helping their nerves. Martin hasn’t gotten a single file properly organized, and Tim’s research ground to a halt pretty much as soon as he started.

Instead, they’ve resorted to twiddling their thumbs, anxiously glancing at the clock, trying to reassure each other, and twiddling their thumbs again. Martin is stress-tea-ing, which is what Sasha calls it. If he had access to a proper kitchen and pantry, he’d be stress-baking too. He needs something to do with his hands, something he’s sure he’s good at.

Unlike filing. And researching.

This is the spiral of thoughts that Martin’s managed to get himself into when, particularly reminiscent of Aragorn arriving at Helm’s Deep, Georgie throws open the door of the Archives.

“Martin, do you still have your fancy first-aid kit?” She half-runs inside, brushing past a shocked Tim, towards the break room.

“Uh—yeah, yeah, of course—um. Why, exactly, is it necessary?” Martin immediately sees why it is necessary, because behind Georgie are Sasha and Jon, and oh dear.

Sasha’s hand looks half-melted, trembling as she clutches it close without really touching it, looking exhausted out of her mind. Jon’s wrist is in a similar state, the fabric from his shirt singed and blackened and sticking to the horribly burned skin.

Martin gapes for exactly half a second before sprinting as fast as he can for his desk, where he’s kept his especially-complicated first aid kit since The Worms.

By the time he’s grabbed it, Georgie and Tim—who’s indignantly squawking at the audacity of Sasha and Jon getting injured—have manhandled the two of them onto the ratty break room couch.

“—You had us sitting here worried sick for over an hour and you come back with third degree burns?” Tim sputters. “I have half a mind to drag you both straight to A&E—“

“And how are you going to explain that the burns are in the shape of a handprint?” Jon raises a brow, as Georgie gently takes his arm and starts cutting off the sleeve of his shirt.

“We could just say it’s a coincidence,” Georgie mutters. “You two were, uh, experimenting with glassblowing, and had an accident.”

”Glassblowing?” Sasha laughs.

“That could work,” Tim hums, frantically digging through the first aid kit—and making a mess of it, Martin would like to add.

“Aren’t you both in, like, terrible pain?” Martin grabs a cloth and a cup, which he starts filling with water.

“We went through the freak-out part on the way back,” Sasha shrugs, slightly breathless.

“There’s also adrenaline,” Jon adds.

“That too! Oh, and guess what,” Sasha turns to grin at him.

“What?”

“We match!”

Jon can’t seem to help but laugh. “We do, don’t we.”

“That is—oh, you two are infuriating,” Georgie grabs a pair of tweezers from the kit, quickly sterilizing them with isopropyl alcohol before turning back to Jon. “I’ve got to get the fabric out of the burn, so this is going to be... unpleasant.”

“Go for it,” he says, but immediately shudders with pain as the first few bits are removed.

“Sorry,” Georgie winces, hissing through her teeth, but Jon shakes his head and motions for her to keep going.

Martin takes the wet cloth and starts padding it around the truly horrific burn on Sasha’s hand, wrapping around her palm all the way round to the back, where the marks of fingers and a thumb are starkly clear.

“Why, exactly, is it in the shape of a handprint?” Martin glances up at Sasha, who is cringing with each tap of the cloth, but honestly is dealing rather well.

“Shook hands with Perry,” she manages, “who happens to be made of boiling wax.”

Tim curses, kicking a cabinet before digging through the first aid kit some more, finally finding the antibiotic cream. Sasha reaches over to him with her good hand, brushing against his arm.

“I’m alright, see? I’m fine.”

“If you can ever even use that hand again,” Tim shakes his head. “What were you thinking?”

“I should be able to, eventually. The spooky’s not giving me any danger alerts.”

“As long as it doesn’t get infected,” Martin interjects, passing another wet cloth over to Georgie.

“True. There’s that. And I was thinking that we’d finally get some real, concrete information.”

“And we did,” Jon says, before flinching at the cloth against his burn.

“Big baby,” Georgie pokes his shoulder.

“Oh, shut it,” he mumbles.

“Was it worth it, then?” Tim sighs. “Please tell me it was.” He finishes applying the cream to Sasha, handing it over to Georgie to use, and manages to find the stash of sterile bandages from the kit.

“Absolutely,” Sasha grins. “You can watch it all on the video once it’s done. Or listen to the tape, if you’re antsy. And,” she looks over to Jon, who weakly smiles back, “we’ve got another tourist destination in mind.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Tim says flatly.

“Nope!”

“Goodness gracious,” Martin exclaims. “I really cannot believe you two. What’s next? Coming back with an extra limb because you hung out with Jared Hopworth?”

“Hopefully, this one won’t be the cause of any physical scarring,” Jon looks wryly over at Sasha.

“Mike Crew,” she explains. “He’s from the Vast. Worst he could do is throw us off a building, or something, and these people don’t seem to want us dead, so...”

“Still stupid,” Tim shakes his head. “Still idiotic. Dangerous. Reckless. I can go on.”

“I know,” Sasha exhales, “but we need this information. Or we might get killed by something much, much worse.”

“Doesn’t mean we have to like it,” Martin mutters.

“No,” Sasha smiles, small and genuine, “it doesn’t.”

“That’s it,” Tim claps his hands together, loud enough that everyone turns to look at him. “Sleepover in the Archives. I’m calling it right now.”

“Really?” Sasha playfully raises a brow.

“Yes, really,” Tim insists. “You literally live here, anyway. I don’t want spookies coming to get any of you in the night, it’s a safe place, Sasha lives here, and between the five of us we definitely have enough pillows and blankets. There’s a projector somewhere I can grab, we can put on terrible horror movies and make fun of how much they don’t reflect real life.”

“I’m all for it,” Martin agrees. “That is, of course, if—if you guys want to, that is.”

Jon and Georgie exchange glances.

“We’d love to,” Georgie grins. “I’ll grab our stuff from home—you’re staying right here, Jonathan,” she turns and points at him when he stands up to follow her.

“I’ll go grab my stuff, Marto, can you watch the patients?” Tim asks. “I’ll trade off with you once I’ve brought as many fluffy blankets as I can carry.”

“Sure thing,” Martin nods.

“We don’t need to be babysat—“ Sasha tries, but Martin cuts her off.

“Yes, yes you do. You’ve got third degree burns, for goodness’ sake.”

“Alright, alright,” she laughs.

—————

There’s a new Instagram post by @what_the_ghost. It is dark, and everyone’s faces are barely illuminated by the light of an unseen screen. Blankets and pillows have been thickly piled on the floor of what is apparently the Archives, if the shelves upon shelves of disorganized files and papers signify anything. Tim is taking the picture as a selfie, grinning at the camera. Behind him, practically buried in the pile of blankets and pillows, are Martin, Sasha, Georgie, and Jon, asleep. The caption reads: “my friends are idiots but sleepovers are the best! photo creds to @timthestoked!” @sashjjjjjj, @martinkblackwood, and @timthestoked are all tagged in the photo.

Chapter Text

The video opens on... yelling, and a significant amount of wild gesturing.

“I will do it! I will call Melanie!” Georgie waves her phone in the air.

“Do it! I’m not afraid,” Jon taunts.

The tension is thick as Georgie taps on Melanie’s contact. Her phone makes it to the second ring before Melanie picks up.

“Hey, GG.”

“Greetings, Melanie King of Ghost Hunt U.K.” Georgie gives the camera a pointed glance.

“Um—“

“I have a highly important question for you.”

“...Go on.”

“What is your opinion on mint ice cream?” With a satisfied smirk directed towards Jon, Georgie leans back in her desk chair.

“Georgie.”

Jon snickers.

“Yes?”

“Are you trying to tell me you don’t like mint ice cream?”

“HA! See, I told you—“ Jon slaps the table and points wildly at Georgie, who gapes at her phone, betrayed.

She sputters. “It’s toothpaste! It’s toothpaste ice cream! It’s cold spicy bad ice cream! It’s—“

“Georgie, you have the weirdest tastes in food of anyone I’ve ever met, and you don’t like mint ice cream?”

“See, it’s ridiculous!” Jon exclaims.

“No! No! First of all, I have great taste, second of all, It’s the devil’s ice cream! I swear it’s just ice-encrusted cold spicy leaf—“

“Georgie. You love Hungarian food. You’ve forced us to go out to Lord knows how many restaurants.”

“I have not—“

“You’ve taken us to Bulgarian, Hungarian obviously, German, Greek, Belgian, Ukrainian...”

“Don’t forget Norwegian.” Jon points out, to which Georgie rolls her eyes.

“Agh, how could I forget Norwegian.”

“Norwegian was perfectly delicious, thank you.” Georgie huffs.

“But the cheese, Georgina. The cheese.” Jon insists.

“The cheese,” Melanie’s voice is grim.

“...Alright, admittedly... the cheese,” Georgie relents. “But everything else was wonderful.”

”Mhmm. Sureeeeee.”

“You know what? I’m hanging up now.”

“See you guys. I’ll bring ice cream next time I’m over. It will be mint, mark my words.”

Georgie, pointedly, hangs up.

Laughing, Jon reaches over to poke her shoulder, although he’s careful to avoid jostling his bandaged wrist.

“You’re forced to admit defeat, now. You’re outnumbered.”

“Only because I’m the only one here who hasn’t burned off my taste buds yet.” She flicks his forehead. Jon narrows his eyes.

“Aaaaaaaanyway,” Georgie turns to face the camera properly. “I’m Georgie Barker—“

”—and I’m Jonathan Sims—“

“And welcome back to What the Ghost!”

The intro plays through, the cheerfully spooky music fading as Jon introduces: “Body Builder.”

J: Fair warning—this one is... extremely strange.

G: ...How so? Like, ghost spiders strange, murder mannequin strange, or Hill Top Road strange?

J: None. It is its own category of strange.

G: Great!

J: It’s another for the Smirke Chart, too—we’ve only made the one video on this.

G: Ooooo! What is it?

J: Guess.

G: Aw, really?

J: Yep. Guess.

G: Alright. Vast?

J: Nope.

G: Uh... Dark? That one definitely gets weird—

J: Still nope.

G: Dang! Oh oh oh, this is the Flesh, isn’t it. Should’ve figured from the title.

J: Congratulations. You have won nothing, except being grossed out and vaguely horrified by the Flesh.

G: Perfect. Let’s go.

”In 2013, a man, who wishes to remain anonymous, had recently needed to leave his gym—as he had made the decision to begin taking anabolic steroids, as a supplement to his bodybuilding training, and his current gym strictly disallowed them.

G: [Wince] That’s a bad idea.

J: Not the greatest of plans, no.

G: Like, make your own decisions and everything, but.... mmmm... bad idea.

J: Just google the side effects.

”He claims to have been, quote, ‘at the top of his game,’

G: [Laughter] Why did you say it like that?

J: [Sputtering] Like what?

G: ‘At. The. Top. Of. His. Game.’

J: You know that common phrases don’t work with the Narrator Voice! You know this!

G: And yet it’s just as ridiculous every time.

J: [Sigh]

G: I’m certain someone’s made a compilation of that before. Hold on.

J: Are you actually—

G: Yes. Yes I am. Now let me...

J: Good Lord.

G: Here one is! Look! See! It’s like three minutes long! ‘The Narrator Voice (TM) But It’s Jon Quoting Modern Slang Pt 2’. It’s part two?

J: I’m begging you. Please.

G: Ah, the life of being a semi-public figure. I’m going to have to look through more of these.

J: Georgina.

G: Yes, Jonathan?

J: Moving. On!

”—but felt he still wasn’t living up to his full potential. After a long search for a gym that had no policies against steroids, he found one in a phone book ad, which read: ‘Your perfect body is here. Become all you can be.’

G: Oh yes, because that’s not sketchy at all.

J: It is genuinely creepy.

G: Whaaaatttt of course it’s not creepy. It’s an innocent gym that lets you take steroids and wants you to pursue your ‘perfect body.’

J: Even without the supernatural aspect, it sounds like a scam.

G: Actually, yeah! It absolutely does! What is this guy thinking?

J: I’m not sure he is.

G: Good point!

”When he arrived at the gym, it was in an old, faded building, with no one behind the desk. Just as the man was about to call out, from the changing room came what he describes as ‘the biggest guy he had ever seen,’ so much so that his track suit had to be re-stitched to fit his enormous frame. There was a ‘J’ embroidered on it, which is the closest thing to a name the man got from him.

G: I love hearing you talk about gyms and exercise. It’s so incredibly unfamiliar to both of us.

J: This is probably the most I’ve thought about any exercise besides walking in years.

”He asked questions, a few of them... invasive, but he showed the man around the gym. Our source describes as ‘standard,’ but with more gymnastics equipment than he was expecting.

J: I have no idea what details about the gym are actually important to the account. Apparently it was also lacking in cardio equipment, but that wasn’t a big deal?

G: Who knows!

J: Who indeed.

G: Well, probably people who go to the gym.

”What struck the source as odd is firstly, that he and ’J’ were the only ones there. And secondly, that there was only one changing room, with lockers that were absolutely enormous.

G: Wait a second, wait a second, I might be an idiot. ‘J’? ...Along with the Flesh on the Smirke Chart?

J: I was waiting for you to catch onto that.

G: Is that Jared the Bone Man? Feeds-his twisty-bones-to-the-mouth-hole Jared?

J: Mhmm!

G: Geez. This guy is doomed.

J: Or, at least, destined to have his bones removed.

G: Can you survive with removed bones?

J: I’d... imagine not? You’d sort of just... flop, right?

G: Like jelly in human form. Or maybe a water balloon?

J: Eugh. A water balloon with loose organs and muscles, just kind of...

G: ...Floating there? That’s so gross.

J: Absolutely disgusting.

”After about a week, he came across one other person using the gym, who was just as surprised to see the man there as he was her. Her name was Marie, and they befriended each other quickly. She revealed that ‘J’ stood for Jared.

G: YEP. THAT’S THE BONE MAN ALRIGHT.

”They shared the same sort of disgust for their own progress, despite both being objectively very successful.

G: Haaang on. Does the Flesh include... body image issues?

J: That’s what this seems to be implying.

G: Huh. What a terrible thing to take advantage of.

J: Jared seems pretty terrible, all things considered.

G: He does like to steal bones. And braid them.

J: That he does.

”This continued until our source left his phone at the gym, and didn’t notice until that night. The door was unlocked when he returned to grab it, and he was just about to leave when he heard movement coming from the gym.

G: That’s murder. That’s murder. There’s murder in that gym.

J: Probably more gruesome than murder, actually.

G: Oh goodness gracious.

”The lights were off, but someone—or something—was using the gymnastics equipment. It couldn’t have been Marie—as the man got closer, he could see that the thing was missing legs and a head, had a multitude of arms, and a smile stitched in the center of its torso.

G: UMMMMMMMM—

J: Isn’t this such a fun one?

G: I hate this. I hate it so much. I absolutely despise it with every fiber of my being. So what, does Jared just—jigsaw body parts? Flip ‘em around like a Rubik’s cube?

J: Apparently!

G: Eugh!

”He screamed, catching the attention of everything else in that gym. Out from the lockers, calling after him, chasing after him were twisted things that had once been people. They offered to help him ‘perfect’ himself, and ‘achieve his ideal body.’ He never went back.”

G: I SURE HOPE HE NEVER WENT BACK.

The camera returns to the duo at their studio table. Georgie is gaping in horror.

“He did talk to Marie, but she either didn’t believe him, or...” Jon trails off.

“Or what. Or what, Jonathan?”

“...Or she was interested in the offer.”

Georgie sucks in a breath through her teeth. “Goodness.”

“According to missing persons reports, Marie Balandin went missing in 2013.”

“Oh geez.”

“And... Sasha’s police friend found us a report listing her as a ‘person of interest’ in a series of animal mutilations close by the gym. A bunch of sheep were found dead, with their femurs removed.” Jon winces, and sets the paper down. After a second, he pushes it farther away from him.

“Did she—did she become another... Bone Person? Are there Bone People?” Georgie throws up her hands, letting herself fall back in her chair.

“I think—I think Jared, and I guess Marie, are probably similar to whatever Jude Perry is?” Jon tries.

“But for the Flesh instead of the Desolation?” Georgie hums, thoughtful. “A, a kind of... aspect, or, or like... gah, I don’t know how to phrase it.”

“I know what you mean, though.”

“Yeah, I know you do, but the audience sure doesn’t,” Georgie pokes his shoulder with a small laugh.

“We’ll figure it out later.”

“That we will,” she concedes. “I think that’s all for today, everyone. Remember to like, comment, and subscribe to keep our bodies from being twisted into unspeakable shapes!”

“Donate to our Patreon for bloopers, the Admiral, and more.”

“See ya!”

—————

There is a new post by @what_the_ghost on their Instagram. It’s a picture of the Admiral, happily purring, being pet by Georgie and Jon. Only their hands are visible. Georgie’s own pockmarked fingers scratch under his chin, and Jon behind his head, bandages still thickly wrapped around his wrist. The Admiral seems very content with this state of events, and is leaning against Georgie’s hand slightly. The caption reads: “we spoil him 💞”.

Chapter Text

The video opens on Georgie and Sasha standing outside the plain white door to a flat. The number has been blurred.

“I’m Georgie Barker,” Georgie whispers to the camera.

“I’m Sasha James,” Sasha adds, also whispering.

“Jon’s behind the camera,” Georgie finishes. “Welcome back to What the Ghost!”

Sasha whips around, steels herself, and knocks on the door. The sound is jarring, and so is the brief moment of utter silence after.

The door opens—just a crack, then wider, revealing a man shorter than both Sasha and Georgie. Windblown dark hair contrasts wildly with pale skin and starkly pale blue eyes—but the most striking thing about him is probably the lightning scar, tracing branching patterns over his face and neck.

The camera wavers, flickering, wildly zooming out, father and farther away—until it is wrenched back into normalcy, quality heightened beyond the camera’s usual capability.

“Ah. Hello there. I was wondering when you’d show. Come in, come in.” He turns back around and waves them through, guiding them to a small kitchen table.

“I’m Sasha James,” Sasha holds out her hand for him to shake, then seems to remember that it’s heavily burned and bandaged—and quickly pulls it back. “My friends here are Georgie Barker and Jon Sims, from What the Ghost.”

“Michael Crew,” the man nods, not seeming offended, “but please. Mike is fine. Can I get you all some tea?”

Surprised, Sasha hesitates.

Georgie intervenes, “We’d love some, thank you.”

“Figured. You all look like you need it—no offense meant, of course.” Mike disappears from the camera’s frame, stepping farther into the kitchen.

“You’re probably right,” Sasha chuckles, and pulls out a chair to sit down at the table. Georgie and Jon do the same.

It doesn’t take long for Mike to return, carrying four clinking mugs in his hands. He sets them down and pulls out the last chair for himself, clasping his hands together.

“I’ve been keeping up with the show. You should probably know, actually—I’m not big on the the... ah... the drama that most of our kind tend to get into, but. Well. Most do tend to keep up with your show. Lots just think you’re funny, but quite a few enjoy their five minutes of fame. It’s how I knew you were coming—saw the Perry bit. Nasty piece of work, she is.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Georgie says enthusiastically, and Mike chuckles.

“One of yours from a year or two ago—featured Ex Altiora—that story was from a childhood friend of mine. It was the mentioning of that Leitner, actually, that got caught my attention. Got me watching the rest of the show.”

“We live up to your standards, then?” Georgie smiles, lopsided.

“Quite. Now, ah, if it’s alright—for the whole interview thing—I’d like to propose a trade, as it were?” He shifts his attention to Sasha, who’s been listening intently.

“How do you mean?”

“You... actually, the two of you,” he glances over at Jon, and gives him a small nod, before turning back to Sasha. “Will get to feed yours throughout this whole thing. While that happens... I’d like to give something to mine?”

“You mean...”

“No broken bones, no injuries, nothing. Talking to your camera doesn’t exactly hurt me—I’m not going to do anything permanent to you unless you give me reason to.” He quirks a brow. “What do you say?”

“Fine with me,” Sasha nods. “It’s... it’s only fair. Jon?”

“Um—sure, I think? Yes, yes, it’s fine.” As he answers, Jon adjusts the camera so that it’s set up to face Mike, and only him.

“Grand. Are you ready?”

“Go for it,” Sasha says. “Tell your story.”

There is a sharp whoosh and a cut-off cry. The camera fizzles before righting itself.

“What about me, then?” Georgie asks from out of frame.

“What would be the point? You have nothing for the Vast to take.”

“I’d... rather not be alone, I guess?”

“Fine with me,” Mike shrugs, and another whoosh cracks through the video quality, but it is quickly forced into clarity once more.

Mike stares awkwardly away from the camera for a long second. He picks up the tape recorder left abandoned on the table with a surprised look—after all, Sasha didn’t leave one there. He sets it back down, unbothered.

“You know, I didn’t really think this through. I’m not sure where to start.” He halfheartedly smiles. “But don’t worry, Archivist. I have plenty to say.”

He exhales, slowly.

“Should probably start with the scar, honestly. That’s what most people want to know, after all.”

And Mike Crew talks about his fractal Lichtenberg scar, and a childhood lightning strike, the pain and terror that came with it.

And his own personal torture—a thing from the Spiral, the Distortion, manifested as a blinding, branching, twisted fractal shape.

He speaks of Leitners, the death of his parents, attempts to twist his own skin, something in unreadable Cyrillic.

And ultimately, Ex Altioria, throwing himself wholeheartedly into vertigo and never looking back.

“I think that’s about all, for all of us. Rather nice. You’re a pleasant lot, as much as something of the Eye’s can be.” With a rush of air and a great clatter, Sasha heaves a deep, shuddering breath. In the background, Jon is coughing, heard along with Georgie’s own shaky, shallow breathing.

“A bit iffy the first time you have a go, but I promise it’s quite fun once you’re used to it,” Mike says.

Jon takes the camera back, just as there’s a knock on the door.

“Odd. Are you being followed, Archivist?” Despite his casual tone of voice, Mike appears genuinely concerned. Sasha gestures for him to stay back, and creeps towards the door. Jon and Georgie follow behind her.

The knocking sounds again, much more insistent this time.

Sasha opens the door.

At the sight of the glaring woman, the video cuts out. Before transitioning to the outro, It cuts back in on a black screen with white words scrolling across it, reading: Once again, we’re fine!

—————

Comments 12k

ashley b
I’m EXTREMELY suspicious of that abrupt ending

jake at a lake
that’s such a depressing life story tho what

crystalline
so what y’all are saying is that superpowers exist but only evil ones.

elle.
now that’s a boy I could get into

matryoshka
I can’t with these camera effects I have such bad vertigo issues guys
-
HufflepuffGang
they’re not effects
-
matryoshka
they’re NOT???

Lizzie Mitchell
Yet another murder confession, right here on YouTube, for all the world to see!

ExpiredContract
Not to be of the Vast or anything but I do love rollercoasters

zeeeeeeebra
that was a spooky looking lady at the door why was she so spooky Why did they cut off the video right then

tasslehoff burrfoot
I kind of want that whooshing sound as my text tone.

Ghost Hunt U.K.
CANT BELIEVE YOU GUYS GOT KIDNAPPED WITHOUT ME
—
What the Ghost!
WE TRIED CALLING YOUR PHONE BEFORE WE LEFT -J
—
Ghost Hunt U.K.
I WAS RECORDING!!!!
—
What the Ghost!
THATS NOT OUR FAULT!!!! -G
—
birdie lee
I’m sorry, KIDNAPPED??!!!!
—
anatomicallyincorrect
hey. hey guys. pls explain. kidnapped????
—
Dennis L
WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU GOT KIDNAPPED

CrowbarGuy
Someone please theorize with me about the Eye and what it means that Sasha and Jon are both connected to it somehow. I’ve got my red string ready

ArtificialBrilliance
mike’s so much more POLITE than jude omg

muggy
Googling this guy only comes up with some family called the Fairchilds? He doesn’t have any other records, according to the Internet. When I click on the Fairchild site I feel a ton of vertigo and then my computer crashes. Any advice?
—
Diction Larry
If this show has been any indication, throw your computer into the sea my dude

Leo Dawson
why am I afraid of my own bookshelf now. which of you is secretly spooky and trying to murder me. bet it’s my chem textbook

The Riskiest Biscuit
did he say... drama 👀

—————

“Hi Daisy,” Sasha sighs.

“Shut up and get in the car,” Daisy orders, arms folded, “before I make you.”

“Alright, alright,” Sasha holds up her hands, and lets Daisy pull her out through the doorway.

“Your friends, too. Put that damn camera away, are you recording this?”

“Well, we were just recording a video, so—“ at Daisy’s unimpressed glare, Jon quiets and quickly shoves the camera into its bag, following Georgie out the door.

The three of them end up shoved into the backseat of Daisy’s beat-up car, shoulders and knees knocking against each other.

Sasha is... trying to stay stoic. She’s not particularly in the mood to give Daisy anything she wants—and fear is definitely something that Daisy wants. So, disregarding of course that Sasha is, in fact, terrified, she’s making a valiant attempt to seem otherwise.

Glancing over at the others, Georgie looks furious more than anything else—better than afraid, but might be just as dangerous, depending on how volatile Daisy’s feeling. She seems to be productively channeling most of that fury on making sure Jon doesn’t have a panic attack right next to her, though.

Sasha always imagined a kidnapping to be more... dramatic. A wild scuffle, a bag tossed over her head, something like that. Daisy didn’t even knock them unconscious (which is definitely a good thing, Sasha doesn’t want brain damage, but still).

She still has her purse with her. Her tape recorder keeps trying to turn on inside of it, and she keeps having to click it back off. On. Off. On. Off.

Actually she might’ve spoken too soon about the drama. Daisy throws the car into park on the edge of a forest, thick and deeply dark despite the overcast daylight outside.

“Out.” And Daisy says nothing more, sliding out of the car.

Hesitantly, they follow suit, and stand stiffly in the deceptively warm breeze. Sasha crosses her arms and raises her head. Daisy is incredibly dangerous, but she’s a person. Sasha has no intention of being murdered by a person, not when there’s creatures of unspeakable horror that could do the job much better.

She can practically feel Georgie glaring from beside her. Against all odds, she has to resist the urge to laugh—she’d hate to be on the receiving end of that particular onslaught of daggers.

Daisy rests a hand on the holster at her hip, and jerks her head to indicate that they’re supposed to follow her.

Into the forest, of course.

...So this is why Sasha’s an inside person. Tim would probably love this hike, but she’s honestly overwhelmingly glad that he and Martin aren’t here right now.

A tree branch catches on her ponytail, and she has to bite down a curse. She’s not going to have hair left by the end of this.

The tape recorder clicks on. She clicks it off. She should have left her purse in the car, but it was slung around her shoulders and she forgot about it.

On. Off. On. Off.

Georgie, her hand holding Jon’s, taps Sasha’s shoulder. She glances questioningly over at Daisy and back to Sasha.

Don’t worry, Sasha mouths, we’re not dying here if I have anything to say about it.

Don’t do anything stupid, Georgie mouths back.

No guarantees.

They make it to a clearing when Daisy stops, so suddenly that Sasha almost walks into her. Which would have been... bad, probably.

“So what now?” Sasha dares. “You kill us? Dump our bodies in the woods?”

“Hm. Observant, are you?” Daisy draws a knife. It’s much longer and sharper than any pocket knife should be.

Behind Sasha, Jon hisses a curse, and inches closer to Georgie. Whether he’s trying to hide behind her or protect her, it’s impossible to tell, but it’s honestly probably both.

Georgie whispers to him, “What did I say about being stupid?” Jon’s short, hushed laugh in response is only a little bit hysterical.

“Shut up.” Daisy growls, whipping to face the two of them.

Okay. Okay. Okay. This is going... not great.

It was Sasha’s new... compulsion powers that made Daisy this angry in the first place, right? Painted a target on her back as some monster?

Might as well.

“Tell me why.”

(On. Off. On. Off. Static. Daisy wouldn’t take kindly to a tape recorder. Daisy’s going to have to deal with it. Jon reaches for a camera that isn’t there. Sasha sees the red blinking light anyway.)

“Don’t you dare—“ Daisy rears around to face her, knife in hand, and Sasha only dares to take a single step back.

“You’re here to murder us, yeah? Tell. Me. Why. I think the least we deserve is an explanation.”

“I don’t—“ Daisy spits out the words like every single one hurts. “You know exactly what you are. What you deserve.”

“I don’t, actually! So why don’t you tell me?”

“You’re—you’re just like the rest of them.” Daisy’s not actually taller than Sasha, but she still manages to loom over her, snarling. “A monster. Murderer. You killed Gertrude Robinson, and once you had what you wanted, you ate the fear and desperation of everyone who came to you for help.”

(On. Off. On. Off. Click click click, static in her ears. Jon’s camera was left in the car, except it’s in his hands.)

Sasha raises her head and looks Daisy in the eyes. For the briefest of seconds, she’s certain they flicker red.

“You’re wrong,” she says simply, and at that moment, crashing through the undergrowth—Basira appears, panting, a light sheen of sweat on her face.

Sasha hasn’t seen Basira in weeks, probably months—she’s stayed away from the Archives like she should, so they’ve only spoken on the phone. But she looks... better.

“Stop,” she croaks, then straightens. Stronger this time, “Stop it, Daisy.”

“Why should I?” Daisy whips around to face her. “You know as well as I do that—“

“Daisy. Please,” Basira steps closer, tapping Sasha’s shoulder as she passes her, and clutches Daisy’s arm. “You can’t—you can’t keep doing this. I thought you only killed monsters. Real ones.”

“I do!” Daisy insists. “How did you—“

“You’re not that subtle.”

“...Oh. Well, it, it doesn’t matter.”

“It matters a lot, actually. They’re innocent, Daisy. And what about the others? Jon and Georgie? Were you just going to murder them, too? For being witnesses to whatever you were going to do to Sasha?”

“I—“

“Sasha’s my friend,” Basira finishes, letting out a breath. “This has gone too far. It... honestly, it went too far a long time ago.”

“James.” Daisy pulls away from Basira. “Who killed Gertrude Robinson.”

“Daisy—“

“Who did it.”

“Elias Bouchard, we think,” Sasha reluctantly answers. ”We’re not sure, though.”

“That’s enough for me.” Daisy pushes past Basira and stalks off into the woods, ignoring her cry of “Wait!”

Basira curses.

“I’ll go with her,” Sasha offers. “Someone needs to, and you three should probably keep away from the Archives right now. Especially Elias.”

“If you think we’re leaving you alone with her, you’re insane.” Jon’s hands are shaking around the camera in his hands. He looks, frankly, terrified.

Georgie‘s gripping his shoulder with white knuckles. “That was stupid, Sasha,” she smiles, tight-lipped and halfhearted. “But we’re about to be stupider.”

“I can drive you?” Basira offers. “That’s as far as I’ll go, but...”

“It’s more than enough. Thank you.” Sasha exhales, heavy, finally letting her shoulders relax. “Let’s go.”

—————

Daisy is already in Elias’ office by the time that Sasha, Georgie, and Jon burst through the door.

“Ah, finally. Welcome, Sasha. And Jonathan Sims, wonderful to finally meet you.” Elias is calmly sitting at his desk, despite Daisy pointing a gun at his head. “And Sasha, I took the liberty of inviting your assistants to this little gathering as well. They’ll be here in a moment.”

“Stop stalling,” Daisy growls between clenched teeth. She looks pale, but Sasha’s not sure why, not sure what they interrupted.

“I’m not stalling, Detective Tonner. I simply think that everyone’s going to want to hear this.”

Nearly tearing the door down behind them, Tim and Martin shove their way into Elias’ office—which is honestly far too small for this many people.

“Sasha! Sasha, are you alright—“ Martin reaches her first.

“Sash, I’m going to put a tracker on you or something—you didn’t come back—“ Tim nearly bowls her over in getting to her side.

“I’m alright! I’m alright! She didn’t hurt me, I’m okay,” Sasha reassures them as best as she can, even though it’s... subpar, at the moment.

“Perfect. Everyone’s all here. Now, Detective,” he gestures towards Daisy, smiling amiably. “Ask your questions.”

“Did you kill Gertrude Robinson?” Daisy’s voice is a low snarl.

“Of course I did. Who else?” His thin smile is only a shade from mocking. “She was going to burn down the Archives, I had little choice. I also killed Jurgen Leitner, but I think most of you already know that.”

“That’s two murders you’ve just confessed to on tape. Give me one reason why I shouldn’t blast your brains apart right now.”

“Hey—hey, maybe hold on a second?” Martin tries, frantic.

“You’ve gone rogue, Detective.” Elias leans forward, practically grinning. “The police are just downstairs. Your former coworkers. And I do mean former, because now that they’ve got proper evidence of everything you’ve done, well. I’m sure I don’t need to spell it out for you. Or your little friend. What’s her name? Oh, something with a B...”

“You’re a bastard,” Daisy hisses.

“So I’ve been told. I take a certain amount of pride in it.”

The hand holding her gun starts to tremble, and Daisy shoves it back into its holster. Without a word, she pushes past the crowd in the office, and leaves. She slams the door behind her, and it nearly comes right off its hinges.

“Tsk tsk. Quite the temper tantrum.” Elias shakes his head.

“Not to be that guy, or anything,” Tim says, frowning. “But why shouldn’t we have just let you die? You’re a literal, actual murderer. And you don’t seem particularly regretful.”

“Oh, right. Forgot about that little detail. Would’ve made quite a big mess.” He makes a show of acting exasperated with himself. “You’re all tied to the Institute now. Which means you’re tied to me. Should either be destroyed... well. Let’s just say, you’ll all be coming down with me.”

Tim curses.

“Yes, it’s an inconvenience, isn’t it?” Elias hums.

After another harsh curse, Tim storms out the door, muttering “C’mon, let’s go. I can’t take any more of him.”

“Tim,” Martin reaches for him but misses, and runs to follow him out.

Sasha turns to leave as well, but Elias stops her.

“Ah, can I have a word with you? It won’t take long, I promise. You as well, Mr. Sims?”

Sasha doesn’t respond, but she turns to face him, scowling. It’s lovely—finding out for certain that you work for a murderer. A murderer that even the scariest murderer you’ve ever met is afraid of.

“Jon is fine,” Jon mutters.

“What do you want with us?” Georgie raises a brow.

And... there.

Sasha almost misses it. But she’s always been rather observant.

A flicker of surprise crosses Elias’ expression at Georgie’s voice.

He’s of the Eye. Maybe the most powerful servant of the Eye there is. And he didn’t notice Georgie.

Interesting.

She files it away for later.

“Ah, Ms. Barker. Your, ah, your show is very interesting to me, as... involved in things as I am.”

“Sure,” Georgie crosses her arms.

“Sasha, you’re coming along... remarkably quickly. I suppose that can be blamed on Leitner, but much of that blame also lies squarely on your new friends.” Elias folds his fingers together, resting them on his desk.

Sasha scoffs. “And is that a good thing, or a bad thing? I’m leaning towards bad.”

“Neither. Simply remarkable.”

“You tricked me into this... whatever it is I’m becoming—“

“The Archivist, an avatar of the Eye, et cetera—“

“Yes, all of that.” Sasha rolls her eyes. “What I’m trying to say is that superpowers weren’t in my contract.”

“Are you unhappy, Sasha?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she snorts, “did you expect me to be jumping for joy that you tricked me into serving a fear god?”

“There’s no need for that,” he tuts. “All I want is your cooperation, for the betterment of us all. You’ve been doing wonderfully so far.”

“Oh yes, because putting together scraps of information and dragging it out of Leitner only to get him murdered is exactly how I define ‘doing wonderfully.’ You already know the information, Elias.”

“And telling you too much would be antithetical to the growth you’ve already achieved on your own.” Elias holds out his hands in a helpless motion.

“That’s stupid,” Georgie snorts.

“And this conversation does not apply to you, Ms. Barker.”

“Then we’ll be leaving now,” Jon narrows his eyes.

“Please. I meant no offense.”

Georgie scoffs.

“The Unknowing,” Sasha says. “You know how to stop it, don’t you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Elias shakes his head. “You’re the Archivist, not me.”

“Useless,” Sasha hisses from between gritted teeth, and whips around to leave the office. With barely a glare, Georgie and Jon turn to follow her.

“Oh, and Jon,” Elias calls.

Jon freezes in the doorway.

“We’re self-made men, you and I. I look forward to seeing how far you’ll go.”

Georgie takes Jon’s hand and pulls him the rest of the way out of the office, as Elias smiles.

Chapter Text

broker: you guys owe so much to the spooky jar. so much

sashayyy: yeah I KNOW but I’m running out of cash

wtJon: ^

mkb: Actually, you know who else owes a lot to the spooky jar?

wtgeorgie: not me I’ve already added for my lack of fear

mkb: No not you!

mkb: Elias.

broker: YOURE RIGHT

sashayyy: ADKSJDLSJDKSJDJS

wtgeorgie: YES.

mkb: Like, he’s got some kind of omniscience! AND he’s committed murder! That’s spooky jar material!

wtJon: Please let us know if you actually manage to get him to add to it

wtgeorgie: we require physical evidence!

broker: don’t worry we got you

—————

“Privet, ladies, gentlemen, and...” Georgie reaches down below the studio table, coming back up with the Admiral in her arms, “cats!”

“He’s upset about something today, but we’re not sure what,” Jon explains.

As if to demonstrate the point, the Admiral yowls, twisting and wriggling until Georgie is forced to drop him onto the table. With an unsatisfied squeak, he flops to lay down upon it.

“We’ll let you know if we find out,” Georgie shrugs. “I’m Georgie Barker—“

“—and I’m Jonathan Sims—“

“—And welcome back to What the Ghost!”

The intro plays through, fading as Jon introduces: “Absent Without Leave.”

G: Oh! A special thanks to the Archive crew for giving us today’s story.

”Luca Moretti was an Italian soldier in World War II. Despite serving under Mussolini, he claimed to never support him, and served in the military for King and country. In his statement to the Magnus Institute, he describes the breaking of his dreams of honor and glory during the war.

G: Reminds me a bit of All Quiet on the Western Front.

J: Very good book. Frightfully dreary.

G: Yeah! It was depressing! Buuuut that was the point.

J: World War I... was a bad time.

G: That’s one way of putting it.

J: This is World War II, which isn’t much better, but at least there were no trenches.

G: I had a teacher in secondary school show us some very disgusting pictures of trench foot. Eugh.

J: Oh, ew.

”He describes that the Italian fighting force was largely ineffective, having been trained to fight in the Alps, rather than the large open plains they were deployed on. After the Italians joined the Allies, Moretti ended up in a Nazi prison camp for the latter half of the war. Upon finally returning home after the chaos of being released, he found an unexpected sight—his old comrades, wearing their military uniforms, preparing for an expedition into the mountains.

G: ...Huh?

J: Bit random, isn’t it?

G: You think you’d want to like... go to sleep first. You just fought a war! Go to bed!

J: Take a mental health day.

G: Don’t go camping. Hunting? Whatever it is they’re going to do.

J: I mean, hunting is one word for it.

G: Oh? Is this the Hunt, then?

J: I’m... not sure. It could be, but it could also be the Slaughter? It’s unclear.

G: Interesting.

”They were hunting deserters, who had apparently “gone rotten.” Moretti felt he had no choice but to join them.

G: Rotten?

J: The exact phrase he used was apparently ‘sono andanti marcio,’ which literally translates to ‘they are going rotten.’

G: Hm.

”They first came upon a mountain cabin. In front of the door was a woman, mending a woolen shirt. As she looked up, they saw that in the middle of her throat was a ragged bullet hole.

G: ZOMBIES? ARE THEY ZOMBIES?

J: APPARENTLY!

”Desperately, they attacked. A unseen gunshot resounded, killing one of their number. They continued to attack the ‘rotten’ deserters for several days, and each time, another one of them would be shot.

G: GO HOME. TAKE A NAP.

J: That would be the better option, yes.

G: The zombies weren’t even bothering them!

J: ...True. That first one was just kind of... mending a shirt. Just sitting there.

G: She wasn’t hurting anybody! Go home!

”Eventually, Moretti was the only one left.

G: OH NO!

”He entered a cave that he’d found, from which emanated a smell like nothing he’d encountered yet. As he entered farther in, slowly but surely, he realized what the cave had become when he placed his hand on the face of a corpse.

G: WHAT.

J: Mhmm. Unpleasant.

G: [Scoff] ‘Unpleasant,’ IT’S HORRIFYING!

J: That too.

”It wasn’t long before he was crawling through them, as the only way forward. When they all opened their eyes, Moretti described it as ‘slow and deliberate.’

G: OHHHHH GEEZ. I don’t LIKE THIS.

J: I’d be concerned if you did?

G: FAIR. BUT STILL.

”When he reached the end of the tunnel, there was a deserter waiting. He lifted his rifle, as Moretti lifted his, though he knew it was too late. But just as he did, five or six shots rang out, and the deserter slumped, dead before he hit the ground.”

J: After which Moretti immediately left, and immigrated to England, eventually giving his statement to the Magnus Institute in 1977.

G: Holy.... I don’t know, guacamole? Moly? Frijoles? Holy something, that’s for sure. Hoooooo boy that was. Certainly something!

J: Quite.

The camera returns to Georgie and Jon at their studio table. The Admiral has shifted enough that his tail is twitching lightly in Jon’s face. He scrunches his nose, but makes no effort to move the cat.

Georgie has her head in her hands. “So, Slaughter then? Although a corpse tunnel could be Buried.”

“Yeah, I’d go for Slaughter. Sasha said that the random gunshots were more its specialty—a ‘senseless violence’ sort of thing.” Jon doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, eventually settling for petting the Admiral. “No followup for this one, it just... is.”

“Hm. Depressing. Just like All Quiet on the Western Front!” Georgie slaps the table, startling the Admiral. She winces, and whispers “Sorry!” He seems unimpressed.

“I guess that’s it, then?”

“I guess it is! Don’t forget to like, comment, and subscribe to keep us from being slowly worn down by the horrors of war until we are but shells of our former selves!”

“Donate to our Patreon for bloopers, even more of the Admiral, and... other things.”

“Oh! Oh! And follow our Instagram, @what_the_ghost! See ya!”

—————

broker: mission failed boys we’ll get em next time

wtgeorgie: awwwwww

wtJon: Disappointing

broker: I knowwwwwwww

mkb: He came down to talk to Sasha (which. no.) so we were all like now’s the time! But he just looked confused when we explained what he had to do

broker: in order for him to be allowed in the archives. he needs to fulfill the requirements. which are, whenever anything spooky, inexplicable, untoward, or related to the entities happens. the one causing it must add to the spooky jar.

mkb: He was just kind of like “I’m sorry, what” in his haughtiest voice which was disappointing to the highest degree

wtgeorgie: I mean, at least you caused some chaos? that’s always something

mkb: True!

sashayyy: I got it all on video from my office, I’ll send it once I can like,,,, go to a cafe or something so I’m not on institute wifi

wtgeorgie: dang is it that bad

broker: sash. do you think elias can spy on us through wifi

sashayyy: you never know !!! who KNOWS what he can spy on us through !!! is it magic ?? is it the tape recorders ??? is it the archives itself ??? does he have magic security cameras ???

mkb: Honestly I don’t think he properly knows what wifi is

broker: tech is more you and jon’s thing tbh, if anyone’s spying through wifi it’d probably be you

sashayyy: fair ! but that would actually be a useful ability, of which I have exactly one (1)

broker: the random knowledge part is useful too tho

wtJon: Is it

sashayyy: is it

sashayyy: AYYYYY

sashayyy: it’s not very often, first of all. and when it does happen, it’s only useful like, 5% of the time

wtJon: Do I need to know that Raymond Fielding had seven identical jumpers that he hardly ever wore? No!

sashayyy: is it necessary to the fate of the world soon to be destroyed by the Unknowing that I know that Graham Folger had exactly 468 notebooks and ate 153 of them? I THINK NOT

mkb: That’s so many notebooks

wtgeorgie: did we ever figure out what was up with the notebooks

wtJon: Nope

sashayyy: I always wondered if he knew the Not-Them was after him and was writing stuff down about himself

wtJon: Oh maybe

wtgeorgie: that makes a lot of sense actually!!!!

broker: not to interrupt the party but ALERT

mkb: ELIAS ALERT. ELIAS ALERT. HE’S BACK

sashayyy: OH NO

broker: IM TOO FAR AWAY TO RUN INTERFERENCE

mkb: IM IN THE BREAK ROOM WHERE IS HE

sashayyy: TOO LATE HE’S HERE WISH ME LUCK

wtgeorgie: GOOD LUCK

mkb: AAAAAHHHH GOOD LUCK

wtJon: Oh no. Best of luck

broker: IM SO SORRY GOOD LUCK

—————

“Sasha. Could I have a word?”

“You can have one, but I can’t say you’ll like what it is.” Sasha doesn’t even bother looking up as Elias enters without knocking. She scribbles a few more notes on Lester Chang’s statement. She’ll have Tim call Chang if he can, see if he’s still... well... to put it indelicately, still alive.

Elias sighs. “You have to give up on this childishness. There’s work to be done.”

“I’ll stop being childish when you stop being a murderer. Oh, wait.”

Elias sighs again, very pointed. Yeah, yeah. Sasha still doesn’t look up. Breekon and Hope are mentioned again, that’s probably something.

“I think it’s time we got your assistants involved in recording statements. It’s clearly taking its toll on you, and with your... absences, your efficiency as Archivist is flagging.”

“I’m the Head Archivist, and I’ll decide the work that my assistants do. They’re busy enough with the follow-up research I’ve assigned.”

“That is a mistake, Sasha.” Elias frowns down his nose at her, his voice dripping with disapproval. Good.

“Then it’s a mistake I’ll make for myself. Now, I’d like to be able to complete this statement? If you’re so anxious for me to be efficient.”

“Fine.” Elias pinches the bridge of his nose. But luckily, he manages to leave her office.

—————

sashayyy: IM ALIVE

broker: OH THANK GOODNESS

mkb: HOW’D IT GO

sashayyy: he wants you guys to do statements :/ I shut that down real quick

mkb: I mean. We could? To get him off your back at least

sashayyy: but the spooky :(

mkb: Fair

wtgeorgie: we all have our token eye spooky, if another one of you gets eye spooky it breaks the pattern

wtJon: Should we take offense to being token eye spookies

sashayyy: I’ve chosen to take it as a compliment

wtJon: Ah

wtgeorgie: either way!!!! we’re binge-watching the Resident Evil movies and making fun of them. mellie’s coming too, and you are all invited!!! and required to come

broker: gladly

mkb: I’ll come!!!

sashayyy: ofc !

wtgeorgie: wonderful

Chapter Text

There is something in document storage.

Sasha is huddled under three blankets of varying fluffiness, curled up on the cot, but she’s somehow still cold. There is only pitch-black darkness surrounding her, she can barely tell where the walls begin and end. Her phone is too far away for her to reach, to turn on the torch, to look at the time. And there is something in document storage.

She can only hear her own breathing, harsh even to her ears. The accusations of Naomi Herne and Dr. Elliot ring through her still—a jolting disorientation from being so suddenly awakened by that startlingly clear realization: there is something in document storage.

She pulls the blankets tighter around her shoulders, tries not to remember statement #9830203.

(It’s here for her.)

And then—

“Don’t turn on the light!” it says, so artificially cheerful that it’s chilling. Sasha knows exactly who it is, but still she asks—

“Who are you?”

“Don’t be silly, Archivist. I’m Nikola, of course! Nikola Orsinov. Named by and after my late father!” There’s a creaking of some kind, too close to Sasha for comfort. “Late because I killed him, of course, but ‘late’ is a much nicer way of putting it. It’s lovely to finally meet you!”

“I, ah, can’t say the feeling is mutual.” Nikola can’t kill her here, she’s... pretty sure. Not in her own Archives. But that doesn’t matter all that much in the grand scheme of things, because she still got in.

“That’s exactly what I expected you to say! You’ve got a reputation for being quite rude.” A low clacking, plastic on plastic. “And you know what else is rude, Archivist?”

“Barging in on people while they’re sleeping.”

“Oh, you’re funny! Ha ha! But really! You’re a party pooper, trying to end my dance as you are.”

“Forgive me for not being fond of an apocalypse.”

“Forgiven! This is a warning, Archivist. Keep away from us. We aren’t your business.”

“Then I’ll consider myself warned.”

(Carefully phrased. Sasha has no intention of stopping.)

“Wonderful! I’ll be seeing you! Or not! Who knows!”

There is an echoed sound that might be footsteps or might be something else entirely, but either way—document storage is empty once more.

Or is it?

It’s very dark, after all, and there’s really no way for Sasha to be sure.

—————

“How do you do?” Georgie tips an invisible hat. “We’ve got quite the story for you all today.”

“Straight from the Magnus Institute, a personal encounter with Maxwell Rayner,” Jon says.

“Our favorite emo cult leader,” Georgie giggles, elbowing Jon in the ribs. He gladly returns the favor.

“It wasn’t just a phase,” he sighs. “It wasn’t just a phase.”

“I’m Georgie Barker—“

“—And I’m Jonathan Sims—“

“—And welcome back to What the Ghost!”

The intro runs its course, and as the music fades, Jon introduces: “Lights Out.”

G: When was this statement given? It was really really old, right?

J: 1864. I was terrified that the paper would crumble into dust just through Sasha taking a picture of it.

G: And it was written in terrible handwriting, I’d like to add.

J: Terrible cursive handwriting, which is even more egregious.

G: Completely illegible! I’m certain that Sasha’s spookiness is the only reason she was able to read that thing.

J: I’m inclined to agree.

”In 1864, Dr. Algernon Moss was involved in social and academic circles parallel to those of Maxwell Rayner.

G: So this does mean that Rayner was immortal, right? Or at least extremely long-lived?

J: Seems so, considering he only passed just last year.

G: Yikes. How would the Dark provide longevity?

J: ...Unclear.

Dr. Moss describes Rayner as an ‘oddity,’ a blind man claiming to be an antiques dealer from Africa. He especially had a passion for polar expeditions—specifically John Franklin’s.

J: So uh, explanation time.

G: Please.

J: During one Sir John Barrow’s time as Second Secretary of the Admiralty, from 1804 to 1845, he sent out polar expeditions. He hoped to find the fabled Northwest Passage through Canada, and if necessary, through the Arctic itself. The last of these expeditions was led by John Franklin. They set off on two ships, the HMS Erebus and the HMS Terror, and were never seen again.

G: It’s always the Northwest Passage, isn’t it?

J: Honestly.

G: Did they ever figure out what happened?

J: Not by the time of this statement, but by now enough pieces have been put together. The ships were trapped in ice off of King William Island in 1846. About three-quarters of the crew survived there until 1848—though Franklin himself didn’t make it—when they decided to walk across the sea ice to reach the Canadian mainland. They slowly died on the march, and none of them made it even a hundred miles within the closest outpost.

G: That sucks.

J: It really does.

”One of the logbooks from the HMS Terror was supposedly found—and Dr. Moss, having an interest in the expedition himself, outbid Rayner on it. Dr. Moss was... predisposed to disliking Rayner, and when Rayner asked him to see the documents rather rudely, Moss denied the request. Rayner, enraged, whispered to him: ‘Pray the Sandman only brings you sleep.’

J: Even Rayner was surprised that this terrified Dr. Moss so much. I don’t think he was expecting it to work.

G: Overdramatic, even in 1864.

J: Ha!

”As a child, Dr. Moss had been particularly traumatized both by his father, and by a story about the Sandman he’d read with a friend of his. It came from a book called Die Nachstücke by E. T. A. Hoffmann.

J: Translating to The Night Pieces, which is... appropriate.

G: Oh, very.

J: It doesn’t appear to be a Leitner, though.

G: Really? If any book was to be a Leitner, it seems like to would be this one.

J: You’d think.

”In it, the Sandman is described as a horrific monster that steals the eyes of children that don’t go to bed, and feeds them to his own children.

G: German fairytales, man. They’re terrifying. Like Krampus, and all that? Geez!

J: It’s a wonder that all German children aren’t traumatized.

”Dr. Moss claims that that very night, due to Rayner’s words, the Sandman finally came for him.

J: Imagine a sort of... crooked, tall, and thin living silhouette, with black sand dripping from its mouth, bringing complete darkness as it encroaches closer.

G: Listen. I literally can’t feel fear. But I really, really, really hate that.

J: It’s not an appealing thought, no.

G: Sounds like a bad time! A real bad time!

J: And it gets worse!

G: Oh boy!

”As darkness enclosed him, Dr. Moss became certain he was in the Sandman’s sack, and that unless he did something he would be trapped forever. So, preferring sightlessness to utter darkness, he took a handful of sand and poured it over his eyes. He describes the pain as something he would rather die than experience again.”

G: And... that’s all?

J: That’s all.

The camera returns to the due at their studio table, both wincing at Dr. Moss’ story.

“All in all... I think this really confirms our theory that Rayner just never outgrew his emo phase.” Georgie smirks.

“Is there anything more emo than reconstructing a friendly childhood fairytale into a horrifically gruesome mockery of itself that leads you to carving out your own eyes with sand?” Jon agrees, thoughtfully.

“Exactly!” Georgie claps her hands together. “Don’t forget to like, comment, and subscribe to keep us from losing our eyes. That would suck.”

“Donate to our Patreon for bloopers, the Admiral compilations, and more.”

“Also follow our Instagram, @what_the_ghost! See ya!” Georgie cheerfully waves as the video fades into the outro.

—————

“Ooookay, that’s a wrap,” Georgie gets up, stepping over to fiddle with the camera.

“I’m going to head out to the store, we still need vanilla. And we’re finally out of cinnamon, actually. Want anything?” Jon offers.

“Crisps, please. Don’t care what kind, as long as they’re coated in salt.” Georgie brushes past him, camera in hand.

“Got it.” He grabs his key and wallet, and heads out the door.

Martin sent him a very nice snickerdoodle recipe a few days ago, and Jon’s been meaning to try it—working wrist or no working wrist. He’s got an electric mixer, it’ll be fine. Of course, nothing that Jon could bake would ever live up to Martin’s cookies, but there’s a rhythm to baking that cooking sometimes lacks. It’s much easier to do thoughtlessly, at least when the recipe is mostly familiar. It’s stress relief, what can he say?

Georgie will love them, though. She’s been wanting him to branch out from breads for a while now.

“Hey, you.”

“Mm?” Jon’s not really paying attention as he turns around, only to nearly run straight into a huge, but ultimately unremarkable, man.

“Sorry about that,” says the equally huge and equally unremarkable man behind him.

“It’s alright—oh,” Jon sees the huge, unremarkable white van. Oh, oh no. Oh no.

“This it?”

“How should we know?”

“They’ve both got the stink of the Eye on ‘em.”

“So which one’s the Archivist?”

“Does it matter?”

“Don’t think there are supposed to be two.”

“Don’t think Nikola will complain.”

“Both, then.”

“Both.”

Jon’s halfhearted attempt to back away is interrupted, as Breekon or Hope grabs him from behind and slams a fist into the back of his head. Everything goes white and then darkens, blooms of not-color blotting out his vision.

Jon is barely aware of being manhandled into the back of the van. Is that—yes, that’s Sasha, splayed on the cold metal floor, bound and unmoving. There’s a coffin too, wrapped in chains, with something carved into the wood.

He tries to struggle, but the effort is weak and ultimately pointless. They only hit him again, harder this time.

(He’s unconscious before he hits the ground.)

—————

The white van is utterly unremarkable and unmemorable as it passes through traffic, eventually leaving London behind.

Despite this, every single security camera in the city turns to face it as it passes.

On each of them blinks a little red light. (Recording.)

Chapter Text

“—are you taking us? What do you want? Tell me!”

“Somebody shut her up.”

“Get the other one, too.”

“Hey! Hey, you leave him alone—mmfh! MMMFPH!”

Jon is forced into awareness by a frankly disgusting gag shoved through his teeth and into his mouth. He doesn’t quite open his eyes yet, doesn’t think he’s capable, but he’d better remember how to do that soon or Sasha’s going to be worried.

...Sasha’s already worried. He can hear her struggling, screaming herself hoarse with defiance from behind the gag. She’s going to get hurt. He has to open his eyes. He has to open his eyes.

He does.

Sasha’s expression is wild and wide-eyed, and his ears ring with the static of a positive feedback loop as they get one last look at each other, before Jon’s shoved into a wooden chair and Sasha is shoved into the one behind him. Back to back.

Their hands are bound together with rope. Rope? Really? How old-fashioned. Jon was expecting zip-ties, or something.

Ugh, he must really be concussed. He’s got bigger things to worry about.

Like the wax statues.

This is—they were taking him to a Nikola, that has to be Nikola Orsinov. So, the Unknowing. The Stranger. Wax is the Desolation, but that’s boiling wax, that’s heat. This is wax statues, things brought to half-life and near-recognition.

How long did it take to arrange them all like this, surrounding the two of them? Or did they just get up and walk to their places?

Sasha’s tape recorder isn’t running. Why isn’t it running?

In front of them are wooden splinters, scattered dust. Cobwebs sway lightly in a nonexistent breeze. He knows what that is, but his head feels cottony and sharply painful all at once, and his thoughts are scattered in every direction. There’s something about this place that’s pressing in on his head, aching behind his eyes.

Her tape recorder should be running. He doesn’t have his camera, so it needs to be running.

It’s too quiet in here. Sasha’s stopped screaming. Her voice is probably gone. He and Georgie did a lot of singing, once upon a time, so he knows exactly how to help with that. If, of course, they ever get out of here.

Getting out.

He’s not even sure how to get out of rope, much less out of wherever here is. They need information, but there’s a hole in his head that he didn’t know was filled until it wasn’t anymore, and he won’t be getting that information anytime soon.

So it’s waiting, then.

(Sasha’s tape recorder sputters, but it’s still not running.)

Would anyone rescue them? Could anyone rescue them? Georgie would try, he knows it, and Tim and Martin would try without hesitation for Sasha. But how can they find them? If they don’t even know where they are, how can anyone else?

“Jmhh?” Sasha’s voice, through heavy breaths. Jon doesn’t think he can respond, can’t quite make his voice work, but he taps his hands against hers as best as he can manage. She sags, sighing with some kind of relief, and taps back.

“Heeeelllooooooo!!!”

Simultaneously, Jon and Sasha jolt, and his heart is racing, who said that, where is it coming from—

Stepping into view is a mannequin-but-not-a-mannequin, plastic and skin and show makeup on a definitely-stolen face. Her irregular joints creak with each step she takes, and the ringmistress costume flounces, glittering in the low light.

Nikola Orsinov is nauseating.

“Oh, isn’t this exciting! The Archivist and a Scribe! An outdated name for an outdated profession, if you don’t mind me saying so, but exciting nonetheless!”

A skittering from behind them. Jon can feel his skin crawling.

“We could take him right now,” something sings. “He’s unnecessary.”

“Tut tut!” Nikola wags a finger at the unseen thing behind them. “You’ve gotten impatient in your time away. They’re a duet, my dear.”

With hiss, whatever that thing is retreats.

“Oh!” Nikola reaches with too-long arms towards Sasha, who physically recoils, hunching in on herself. Nikola plucks the tape recorder from her pocket. “You’ve brought a tape recorder! Bit of a redundancy, don’t you think?”

Sasha shudders. Jon taps her hand again, even though his own are shaking. He doesn’t want to think about what any of this means. That’s for another time. Right now, the adrenaline in his veins says survive.

“After all, you’ve already got your very own recorder right here! He must be a special one, too. We thought his kind were extinct!” Nikola throws the tape recorder in the air, catching it with a movement that is too fluid. With a great effort, it finally clicks on in her hand. “Who listens to these? Do you know, Archivist?”

On her tiptoes like a ballet dancer, Nikola steps around them to stand in front of Sasha, and now Jon can’t even see her. He wrenches painfully against the ropes, trying to—to do something, turn around, anything.

“Relax, little Scribe! I’m not going to hurt her! Well. Not yet! I want you both perfectly unblemished for the dance, after all.” Nikola moves back into view, all crooked limbs and horrifying grin. Jon’s desire to look away from the nauseating sight wars with a determination to never let her out of his sight again.

“You don’t know much at all, do you, Archivist?”

Sasha mutters something into her gag, but Nikola doesn’t acknowledge it.

“Perhaps it’s the great big Eye in the sky, all bulbous and fat, taking up the tapes and aaaalllllllllll the lovely little spooks you record!” She claps her hands together. “Oh! Perhaps it’s your assistants? The poor things, leashed to you like this.”

Sasha tries to shout something, but her voice is still rather shattered, and it sounds more desperate than angry. Jon taps her hand again. They’re not here, they’re fine. As long as they stay far away from here, they’re fine.

Rescue is starting to sound like a worse and worse idea by the second. Screw wanting Georgie to come for him, he wants her to move to Switzerland and never come back. To take the Admiral and run.

“Ohhhhhh, I bet it’s your Elias! Hello, Elias! Can I call you Elias? I’m going to call you Elias. I’ve got your little eyes right here with me! Have you been wondering where they went? Did you think they abandoned you? Do you care at all? Certainly if you cared at all, you’d come for them.”

Sasha growls through her gag, and Jon’s inclined to agree.

“She’s very angry, your Archivist. Like a feral little cat! Oh-so-adorable, but determined to bite the hands that feed her. I should still like to keep her, though.”

Nikola leans in close. Jon fixes her with his most vicious glare. She reaches for Sasha’s long ponytail, falling loose in a way that looks extremely uncomfortable. Nikola drags her plastic-yet-not hand through her hair, and Sasha shudders.

“And she’s got such pretty hair, too. I might like to have it! Wouldn’t I just look lovely, Elias?”

All of a sudden, she whips her head around to face Jon with a sickly crack.

“Neither of you have been taking care of your skin, though. It’s very disappointing. Don’t worry, I’ll fix that later!”

She plucks Jon’s glasses off of his face. He cringes away from her reaching fingers.

(Sasha taps his hand.)

“Oooo! Don’t I just look academic? Do they suit me?”

Despite himself, Jon snorts. He can’t exactly see her now. What does she expect him to do?

“You’re no fun.” She places his glasses back on him, just crooked enough to be uncomfortable. “You hear that, Elias? Your little eyes are boring.”

Jon’s fine with that.

“Ugh, I’ve got to be off. Lots and lots of preparations to do for our dance! Oh! Oh! Right! Byyyy the wayyyyy.” She grins a painted grin. “Do either of you have a preferred brand of lotion? Or conditioner!”

—————

broker: GEORGIE

broker: JON

broker: @wtgeorgie

broker: @wtJon

broker: @wtgeorgie

broker: @wtJon

broker: @wtgeorgie

mkb: SERIOUSLY GUYS

broker: @wtJon

mkb: PLEASE

broker: @wtgeorgie

mkb: @wtgeorgie

broker: ANSWER YOUR DAMN PHONE

wtgeorgie: WHAT

broker: ANSWER

wtgeorgie: OK

Georgie easily answers her phone on the first ring. She briefly sees that she has five missed calls, which is her bad, but in her defense she was editing.

“Is Sasha with you guys?” Tim is frantic, which is as concerning as it is unusual.

“No, she isn’t. I’m the only one here, Jon’s out to the store. Why? Is everything alright?”

Tim curses. “Call him. We’ll spam him in the group chat or something. Sasha’s missing.”

Georgie sputters, “What? What do you mean, missing?”

“I mean, she went out to the front of the Institute for fresh air and didn’t come back, and now we can’t find her! We’re going to talk to Elias.”

“Got it.”

Tim hangs up. Georgie immediately presses on Jon’s contact.

Pick up. Pick up. Pick up, Jonathan.

He doesn’t. He doesn’t pick up. She calls again.

Her phone is going off like an alarm system. @wtJon, @wtJon, @wtJon. Pick up.

She calls again.

Pick up!

She calls Tim.

“He’s not answering. Get the hell over here as soon as you can.”

“Damn it! Alright.”

Georgie shoves her phone in her pocket and sprints through the door of her flat, down the hall, down the stairs, out the front door. It smells like a storm outside, and the wind is picking up. The overcast sky is threateningly darkened at the edges.

She looks around as though she could find any sign of Jon in the street, somewhere in the passerby, anywhere. Anything.

She calls again.

There, on the pavement, a phone rings.

Her heart dropping, she nudges a few people out of her way to reach it, picking it up. The screen is cracked, but it’s Jon’s phone. The wallpaper is a terrible selfie of her she’d set months ago, as a joke, because he usually prefers landscapes. 367 texts, 26 missed calls.

She clamps a hand over her mouth to keep from shouting, screaming, or whatever it is her voice wants to be doing, and runs back inside.

—————

“Where is she.”

“I told you, I don’t know.”

Tim slams his palms down hard on Elias’ desk, hard enough that Martin flinches from behind him at the sound.

“Where. Is. She.”

“I don’t know! I don’t know, Timothy,” Elias insists. “If I did I would tell you in a heartbeat.”

“But you didn’t tell us when she vanished, did you? It’s been hours, Elias! And now Jon’s gone, too.” Martin drags a hand through his hair, panic evident on his features.

“Jon too? Interesting.”

Tim leans over Elias, as threatening as he can make himself.

“Tell us everything you know. Or I will make life hell for you.”

At this... Elias seems to reconsider.

“There’s no firing me,” Tim smirks, vicious. “You brought that on yourself.”

Elias sighs.

“All I can figure is that it was the Stranger. The Circus of the Other. But I am far from omniscient, and I don’t know where or how.”

“Was that so hard?” Tim takes Martin by the shoulder and pulls them both out of the austere office.

—————

“The Circus,” Tim spits out as he and Martin burst through Georgie’s door. “It was the Circus. They’ve got them.”

Basira, on speakerphone from the coffee table, curses.

Melanie’s already here, and she kicks her chair leg with a booted foot. “Georgie, what have you guys figured about the Stranger? Any locations?”

Georgie is pacing back and forth and throughout the main rooms of the flat, her arms crossed. The Admiral follows along behind her, occasionally meowing forlornly or jumping against her leg. She finally picks him up, hugging him to her chest.

“I don’t think so? No? Uh, there was a department store?”

“And theaters,” Tim flops down on the couch.

“And taxidermy! Taxidermy shops and taxidermy itself.” Martin adds.

“What else is Strangerish sort of... completely, like that?” Basira asks.

“Dolls? Dolls are a bit like that?” Martin tries.

“Anything circus-y,” Tim says.

“Skin, right?” Melanie winces. “Skin, and skinning?”

“I can check through our databases for nearby circuses,” Basira says, and immediately the clicking of a keyboard can be heard.

“GG, please come sit down,” Melanie calls over to Georgie, still pacing. “We’re going to find them.”

“I know. I know. I just...” She stops in place, exhales. The Admiral mews. “We’ll need weapons, won’t we?”

“I—huh?” Tim frowns.

“I mean, this isn’t going out to an interview and getting burned. This is a kidnapping. This—we’re putting together a rescue mission. They’re going to try and stop us.”

“I have knives,” Melanie raises her hand. “I have a lot of knives.”

“Why do you have so many knives?” Martin glances her way rather worriedly.

“I liked doing tricks,” she shrugged. “And then I just kinda started... getting more.”

“I mean, I technically still have a gun, but...” Basira trails off.

Tim shakes his head. “We need a guy in the chair, and right now you’re in the best position to do that.”

“I might be able to convince Daisy to come along?”

“Could we trust her to not try and murder them behind our backs?”

Basira sighs. “Probably not.”

“Alright. Okay. Here’s the plan.” Tim stands. “We go and get weapons. Knives, axes, hatchets, shovels, crowbars, anything we can use. If anyone asks, we say we’re going camping. Basira, you’re on location duty until further notice.”

“Got it.” And with that, Basira hangs up.

“Autobots, let’s roll out,” Tim says grimly, and, followed by everyone, heads for the door.

—————

By midnight, they only get a single text from Basira. “Nothing yet.”

Everyone else joins in the search, and while there’s hundreds of possible locations, there’s just... no way to narrow them down.

—————

Georgie’s phone is ringing. Slowly at first, and then with a gasp she wakes up from where she’s sprawled on the couch. She fumbles with her phone, eventually managing to bring it to her ear.

“Georgie,” Basira breathes, “you’re not going to believe this.”

“What? What—what is it?”

“The security cameras. All—all of the security cameras, they just—its incredible—ah, the white van men. What were they called again?”

“Breekon and Hope?”

“Yeah, them. They’re the ones that got Sasha and Jon.”

Georgie holds her breath.

“The security cameras followed them,” Basira’s incredulity is clear even through the phone. “No matter what they were supposed to be looking at, all of them focused right on Breekon and Hope. It’s, ah, causing quite the commotion at the station, but I’m Section 31, so... it’s my job... and I can follow the cameras. I can follow the cameras, and, and we can find where they went.”

“Basira, I can’t—I can’t thank you enough.”

“Don’t thank me, thank Jon for having spooky camera powers.”

“I’m... thanking you anyway.”

“‘Course. I’ll let you know when I’ve got the location.”

Basira hangs up. As Georgie lowers the phone from her ear, she’s overwhelmed by a kind of relief she wasn’t sure she could even feel anymore.

Beside her, Melanie grumbles and shoves her face further into a throw pillow. Tim somehow managed to lay face-down on the floor, and Martin’s curled up in the armchair.

A few quiet minutes pass.

Then a text from Basira: “The House of Wax museum, Great Yarmouth. Be careful.”

Quietly, Georgie slides off the couch and creeps over to the kitchen, where she takes a pan off the rack and a metal spoon.

With a grin, she slams them together, successfully waking everyone with a jolt. She’s barraged by shouts of offense.

“Everybody shut up, and get in the car,” she yells above the cacophony. “We’ve got a location, we know where they are!” She bangs the pan and spoon together again. “Up up, let’s go, let’s go!”

That’s all it takes. After ensuring their arsenal is properly packed in the trunk, they’re gone.

—————

It’s impossible to tell how long it’s been. Not—not much longer than a day, it can’t have been, but—well, how would Jon know?

Nikola hasn’t come back, thank the Lord, but the mannequins have. Faceless things, not like Nikola, who despite herself is full of personality.

He’s had Sasha at his back for most of it. Occasionally tapping hands is all they can do, but it’s... it’s enough.

His wrists hurt. The sharp, stabbing pain has faded to a consistent throbbing ache, but he’s not sure which is worse.

He tore them when they took Sasha away, just that once. The rope against his still-unhealed burn had been painful to begin with. And when they untied her from him, dragged her away kicking and screaming, he’d screamed right back and wrenched his still-bound wrists as hard as he could. The burn had been ripped open and it had been excruciating, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He didn’t want to be here alone. He didn’t want Sasha to be alone.

The mannequins brought her back shivering, her hair down and dripping wet, but otherwise... okay.

Other than that, they’ve been left alone. He’s not sure when the lotion part will start, and he’s desperate to never, ever find out.

How long do they plan to keep them here? The mannequins haven’t brought food or water. Do they even need it, or is this some pocket of timeless space? What if it’s been weeks, months, years, smashed all together in a single day? Or will they live out each day stretched to its entirety, gagged and bound, limbs going numb, fruitlessly struggling until they can’t anymore?

...He falls asleep at one point, he guesses—although he can’t remember when or how—because the next thing he remembers is Georgie.

Georgie, Georgie, oh thank the Lord, wait—wait no no no, no, leave, get out of here Georgie, you can’t be here, she can’t get you too—

“Jon! Jon! It’s okay! It’s alright! It’s me, it’s me, everyone’s here—we got you.”

You can’t be here—

She slips a knife out from her pocket, and he gasps out a heavy breath as she slices through the gag. The next thing he feels is the ropes going slack, and finally pulling away. His vision goes white with pain as feeling rushes back into his arms, and the pressure on his wrists is released.

“—t, what did you guys do?”

Sasha’s own sharp gasps of pain are wordless.

He glances behind him, sees Martin, holding Sasha’s hands. Her wrists are rubbed raw, the skin torn clean off. Jon spares a glance to his own, and while the left is similar to Sasha’s, his burned wrist is actually bleeding and shredded, the dark blood dripping down his hand, and... probably has been for a while. Huh. He hadn’t noticed.

The still-concussed part of his mind snorts. Nikola would have hated this. If she was so about keeping them ‘unblemished’ then she should have known better than to tie them up with rope.

“Can you stand?”

He blinks.

Oh, that’s, that’s Melanie. Melanie shouldn’t be here either. And there’s Tim, his axe coated in wax, stalking circles around them. Guarding.

“You—“ he coughs. Right, right, the ill-advised screaming. Not much of a voice left on either of them, but Sasha’s probably not going to be able to talk for days.

Georgie’s concern has increased tenfold, if her face is anything to go by, and yeah, the concussion is making itself real obvious now. Melanie winces, shaking her head and cursing. He hears something along the lines of ‘beating some more damn wax heads in’ before she stomps off to join Tim in his vigil.

“Stupid,” he manages to whisper.

“I’m willing to be stupid for you, alright?” Georgie pokes his shoulder. Jon doesn’t think he has voice enough left to respond properly, but he takes her hand squeezes it, hopes she understands what it means. He thinks she does.

Georgie maneuvers herself into the awkward position of supporting him as he tries to stand. It takes a few tries, but they manage. A glance over at Sasha and Martin sees Martin trying to convince Sasha to climb onto his back. It’s a losing battle, and he seems to resign himself to being a human crutch until Sasha has feeling back in her legs.

There are... a lot of weapons, Jon notices, now that he’s properly upright. Georgie’s got a knife and a hatchet slung on her belt, Tim’s got a huge axe, Martin has a hammer of all things, and Melanie is wearing so many knives it’s comical.

He gestures towards Georgie’s hatchet, and gives her a questioning look.

“Oh. Yeah, we had to kinda... fight our way in here. The waxworks were... a lot more active, before. I don’t know what these ones are doing, but I know I don’t like being surrounded like this.”

“Are we good to go?” Melanie asks.

“Think so,” Martin says, just as there is a terrible, terrible clattering sound of waxworks falling to to ground and shattering.

“Archiiiviiistttttt,” sings the skittering creature from before, and now Jon has enough presence of mind to recognize it. The Not-Them, freed from its bindings. “Are you being naughty?” It sounds both like a thousand different voices layered upon each other in discordant harmony, and no voice at all.

Every single instinct he has screams to—

“Run,” Georgie whispers, then screams, “RUN!”

They barrel through the remaining wax statues, bursting into an open corridor, filled with almost-scenes of historical events. The thing crashes behind them, but no one spares a single glance back to look at it.

Jon’s getting his footing now, and soon he’s running on his own, his heart pounding in his ears. Sasha limps a little longer against Martin and for a long second Jon’s worried they’re falling behind, slowing down. But Sasha shoves herself off of Martin and gestures for him to go, and she keeps up on her own without too much trouble.

Tim is the only actual runner here, and he leads them easily down long hallways and through exhibits. But it’s not a very large museum, and a few wrong turns and wrong circling-backs leave them pinned.

Backed up against the wall, Jon can finally see the thing clearly.

Long, thin, limbs, with sagging, shapeless gray flesh stretched across them. There are far, far too many limbs. It’s face is... too horrible to describe or comprehend in any meaningful fashion.

It is coming closer, and they have nowhere to go.

“For whatever it’s worth, it’s been an honor,” Tim shouts over the clattering and calling of the Not-Them. Agreements are murmured, and Sasha reaches over to tap Jon’s hand. He returns the gesture.

But then—somehow, heard loudly over all that noise, is a very familiar creaking.

“You look like you need a door,” muses Michael, and really, Jon already has a headache. He doesn’t need a second one on top of it.

Michael gestures towards his open corridors like a tour guide—if that tour guide was the incarnation of madness and delusion itself.

“I really don’t like the look of that,” Melanie warns.

“Do we have any other choice?” Martin points at the Not-Them, barreling closer with every passing second. It’s nearly upon them by the time that Sasha mouths ‘screw it’ and marches through the doorway. Frantically, everyone rushes to follow.

They can hear the creature’s wailing as the door clicks shut behind them.

“Welcome,” Michael chuckles. “Here you’ll find hallway, there some more hallway, there a few doors, and every once in a while, a mirror. But mostly it’s hallways. Follow me.”

After an impossible-to-determine stretch of time and walking, Michael suddenly stops.

“He wants to kill you, Archivist. I thought you should know.”

Sasha quirks a brow.

“As in, Michael,” Michael explains, although that doesn’t explain anything at all.

“Aren’t you Michael?” Martin frowns.

“Of course not. I’m not Michael, I’m Michael.”

“Michael Shelley wants to kill me,” Sasha whispers. It is painful-sounding, and even Michael seems to wince.

“I am Michael, and I am not Michael, but Michael Shelley wants you very dead, and he wants it very soon. He won’t get it, but it is... tempting.”

“Why?” Sasha asks, and that’s when Jon realizes that the tape recorder has been running since their rescue.

And just like with Jude Perry, just like Mike Crew, Michael talks.

Jon never thought he’d feel anything for the headache-inducing thing that stabbed him in the shoulder for fun, but... what’s going through his mind right now feels suspiciously like pity.

Whatever being the Scribe means, he knows he much prefers to be it alongside Sasha, rather than Gertrude Robinson.

As if reading his mind, Michael looks over at him. Instead of his gaze being mind-spinning and world-flipping, like it usually is, it feels like cold and bitter wind whipping around his face and the heavy snowfall of a near-blizzard.

“The Scribe, is it?” Michael’s voice is oddly subdued. “Hm. Thought it would be fancier.”

And with that, he turns and leaves, vaguely gesturing for them to follow.

In what feels like a few hours, but honestly who knows at this point, Michael stops short at one of the colorful doors in the spiraling corridors.

“Here you are,” he steps back. “Safe and sound.”

‘Thank you,’ Sasha mouths, but Michael cuts her short.

“Don’t do that, Archivist. Just... don’t. Who knows, I might still kill you later.”

She nods, and everyone steps through the door.

—————

The world seems to flip on its head before righting itself, and everyone—Georgie counts to make sure—herself, Jon, Sasha, Martin, Tim, Melanie—stumbles into her living room.

Georgie wastes no time in pulling Jon into what might be the fiercest hug she’s ever given him, and he melts into it the way he almost never does, and she can’t bring herself to care about anything else right now.

Not the way that Melanie gasps ”Two weeks?!” and not Martin fumbling around for a first-aid kit, not Tim flopping onto her couch, nothing.

Sasha is softly laughing at Melanie’s expression, and then Tim is teasing Martin with a playful smile, and Jon is right here with her, and everyone is safe. Right now, that’s all that matters.

Chapter Text

Birdie Lee @birdielee
anyone know why wtg hasn’t posted this week? #WhereIsWTG
Ashes O’I Wish, Man @ashleyb
idk, nothing from ghuk either tho

The Neatest Yeet @NeatoYeeto
So uhhhh fellow @WhatTheGhost fans: this a hiatus, or something sinister
Concrete Jungle @bungledjungle
sinister, definitely

Maximilian @MaxM
wtg posts vids of them getting terribly injured all the time, so I’m not sure what could happen to them that means they Don’t post. I’m so afraid to find out #whereiswtg

BBC London✔️ @BBCLondonNews
Security camera malfunctions occurring all over London reported to be a ‘freak accident’ by police.

Aquamarine @AMJ
miss them :( their videos always make my week #whereiswtg #whereisghuk

Kathy D @katherinedddd
Guys they’re probably just sick or something leave them alone
Muggy @humidcup
But Georgie would’ve posted on the insta or smth. The radio silence is what’s freaking everyone out

Chewie @chewbaccasgun
the existential terror,,,,,, #whereiswtg #whereisghuk
[The “one fear” meme. The middle panel has been edited to say: “wtg doesn’t post and georgie doesn’t tell us why”]

Petal @sunflowerseed
hey I’m new here do they post every other week??? I thought it was every week but I might be wrong??? why is everyone on Twitter panicking
Carpetbag @carpetbagging
oh honey

Kit’s Cat @kitkat
I’ve got a bad feeling about this #whereiswtg

—————

BBC London ✔️ @BBCLondonNews
Popular YouTubers Georgina Barker and Jonathan Sims have officially been reported missing alongside fellow YouTuber Melanie King, and Sasha James, Martin Blackwood, and Timothy Stoker, who are known to make regular appearances.

Jake at a Lake @JakeLakeville
UHHHHHH WTF GUYS #WHEREISWTG #WHEREISGHUK

A Lost Bicycle Card @leahhhhhh
WHAT DO YOU MEAN, MISSING????? HOW DID SIX PEOPLE JUST VANISH #WHEREISWTG

Annie S @anniesmith
Everyone was apparently last seen at Georgie and Jon’s flat on Tuesday, have there been any sightings since then?

BBC London ✔️ @BBCLondonNews
Police response to any questions is simply “Stay away from wax museums.” They cannot be reached for any further comments.

2300 Empire @Today
GUYS THEY WENT MISSING AT DIFFERENT TIMES, READ THE ARTICLE. JON AND SASHA WERE LAST SEEN HOURS BEFORE EVERYONE ELSE #WHEREISWTG

Ruffles @RuffleWaffles
I hate that literally anything could have happened to them I’m so scared #whereiswtg #whereisghuk

YouTube ✔️ @YouTube
We are all hoping for the hosts of What the Ghost and Ghost Hunt UK to be found. Until then, stay safe everyone, and report any sightings to the police.

Fool of a Took @Pippinnnnnn
what the HELL does “stay away from wax museums” mean I’ve never been more confused and concerned in my entire life #whereiswtg

BBC London ✔️ @BBCLondonNews
Skillman & Sons cashier claims to have seen Georgina Barker, Melanie King, Timothy Stoker, and Martin Blackwood. They bought multiple items, including axes, pocket knives, and a hammer.

Ashes O’I Wish, Man @ashleyb
has anyone talked to their families???? #whereiswtg #whereisghuk

Muggy @humidcup
HEY EVERYONE Georgie, Melanie, Tim, and Martin got into a car on Wednesday!!!! The license plate is AR26 OCP, report it to the police if you see it!!!! #WhereIsWTG #WhereIsGHUK

The Mechanisms @TheMechanisms
We know we’re dead, but we still want our crew back safe.

3D Glasses @interdimensional
cant believe I have to like. go to school. how am I supposed to focus #whereiswtg

Rosy @RoseBush
there’s no evidence of foul play yet according to the article but it’s REALLY sketchy that jon and sasha vanished first #whereiswtg #whereisghuk

Squid @sydneythe2nd
what were the axes for. I have to know #whereiswtg

clara @ClarissaP
GUYS. GUYS. HOW IS THE ADMIRAL DOING. IS HE OKAY????? HIS MUM AND DAD ARE GONEEEEEEEE #whereiswtg
Amy Parson @AmyParson
Don’t worry! I live next door, I’m taking care of him until they‘re found!
clara @ClarissaP
OH THANK GOODNESS

—————

Birdie Lee @birdielee
week 2 everybody,,,,, how we doing #whereiswtg #whereisghuk

Riley Anderson @rileyandy
THREAD: Everything we know so far about the disappearances of the What the Ghost co-hosts, Georgie and Jon, Ghost Hunt UK’s host Melanie King, and their Magnus Institute friends:
Riley Anderson @rileyandy
Georgie and Jon were reported missing by their landlord, and Melanie’s neighbors reported her. Sasha, Tim, and Martin were not reported missing at all until Tim and Martin were discovered to be with Georgie and Melanie prior to their disappearances.
Riley Anderson @rileyandy
Jon and Sasha vanished at unspecified times on that Tuesday afternoon. The rest were seen at a hardware store hours later, picking up some strange items (like axes).
Riley Anderson @rileyandy
Georgie, Melanie, Tim, and Martin were last seen at Georgie and Jon’s flat. Neighbors reported a loud clanging that Wednesday morning, after which the four of them got into a car, and left.
Riley Anderson @rileyandy
The car was found in Great Yarmouth a few days ago, abandoned in an empty car park.
Riley Anderson @rileyandy
In the two weeks since, the only police comments have been to “stay away from wax museums.”
Riley Anderson @rileyandy
There was apparently a ‘commotion’ in the closed House of Wax museum in Great Yarmouth at one point, but police have investigated and found nothing.
Riley Anderson @rileyandy
You’re missed, What the Ghost and Ghost Hunt UK! Come back safe soon! #WhereIsWTG #WhereIsGHUK

grubsong @MiaMiller
first it was worms. then it was war ghosts. then it was all sorts of spooky vague references. jon has camera superpowers??? sasha has superpowers??? then it was Perry. then it was Mike. and???? now they’ve???? vanished???? please let these poor people have a break #whereiswtg

Artificial Brilliance @artificialbrilliance
the urge to meme vs my utter terror for the wtg crew,,,,,,, pls be ok #whereiswtg #whereisghuk

Tabby Tea @TabithaTerry
hey, I know that wtg and ghuk don’t get along great with most of the ghost hunting community, but they’ve been. really silent on this whole thing #whereiswtg #whereisghuk

BBC London✔️ @BBCLondonNews
The Barker, Stoker, and James families send their hopes and prayers towards their missing family members, and thank everyone for their well-wishes and everything they’ve done to help in the search. The Sims and Blackwood families could not be reached for comment.

Arrow @archerygal
I don’t get it, it’s basically been two weeks since we’ve even seen a HINT. people can’t just vanish that completely #whereiswtg
Crowbar Guy @probablygordon
Well obviously there’s something spooky going on. Maybe something decided that their videos are too dangerous.
Arrow @archerygal
thanks, now I’m utterly terrified

clara @ClarissaP
I’m still so concerned about the Admiral #whereiswtg
Amy Parson @AmyParson
He misses Georgie and Jon, but is otherwise doing well.

Nadia @clericoftheyear
Praying for you guys... come back soon #WhereIsWTG #WhereIsGHUK

—————

Amy Parson @AmyParson
The Admiral seems very excited today, I think that’s a good sign! #WhereIsWTG

BBC London✔️ @BBCLondonNews
Neighbors report a commotion in Georgina Barker and Jonathan Sims’ flat, despite no one entering the building.
Aquamarine @AMJ
ARE THEY BACK???? DOES THIS MEAN THEY’RE FRICKING BACK????
Thermostat @thermostatic
I really don’t want to get my hopes up, but man...

Melanie King✔️ @GhostHuntUK
I’m kinda honored at how concerned you guys all are, but we’re fine. Had a bit of a time, ask @WhatTheGhost about it #wtgisbacknow #ghukisbacknow
Ashes O’I Wish, Man @ashleyb
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA WHAT
Dennis @DennisLeroy
AKSNAJHDKSDHKSJSHD
Wingardium @leviosAAAA
BRUHHHHHHHHHH

What the Ghost!✔️ @WhatTheGhost
Sorry about that, everyone! All of your love is very much appreciated 💞! We’re taking some time off for now, but we’ll be making a proper explanation video soon! #WTGisBackNow #GHUKisBackNow
Birdie Lee @birdielee
I’ve never been so relieved in my life but also holy hell and back again guys
Ever Whenever @emmawright
A A A AA A A AAAAAAAAA A A
Granola @GrantM
I Have Literally No Words, but glad you guys are ok
Built More @kaydenC
you had us all so terrified like you’re my favorite youtubers what on earth was I gonna do
Gee-Tar @musicmildred
WELCOME BACK ❤️

Tim, the Most Stoked @timstoker
wish my 15 minutes of fame weren’t about disappearing for 2 weeks but hey I’ll take it
Martin K Blackwood @martinkb
Really???? Really???
What the Ghost!✔️ @WhatTheGhost
Pffttttttt
Sashaaaaaa James @SashaJames
AKSJAKSJSJ
Melanie King✔️ @GhostHuntUK
Wow
Corgiiiiii @ThatDogGuy
WHATTTTTTT
Artificial Brilliance @artificialbrilliance
,,,,,,Bruh
Tim, the Most Stoked @timstoker
hey a guy’s gotta cope somehow

Basira Hussain @BasiraHussain
Please. Never make me go through that again.
Sashaaaaaa James @SashaJames
IM SO SORRY BASIRA

Amy Parson @AmyParson
[A video taken in a building hallway. The door to one of the flats opens, revealing a frazzled and exhausted-looking Georgie and Jon. Both of Jon’s wrists are now bandaged. With the happiest mew in the world, a ginger streak recognizable as the Admiral launches towards them at full speed. Georgie bends down, and the Admiral leaps into her arms, purring loudly. He briefly stops to yowls at Jon, until Jon laughs and reaches over to scratch under his chin.]

—————

“You couldn’t see us, then.”

It had been a difficult decision, this... meeting, or whatever you want to call it, with Elias.

Especially alone.

But Sasha doesn’t want her people anywhere near him. So if she must talk to him, best to do it this way.

“No. But, we now have the location of the Unknowing. We have a significant advantage.”

“How long would you have left us there? How long until you would’ve told Martin and Tim I’d been kidnapped?” She crosses her arms, leans back in her chair.

“Impossible to say. It wasn’t something I had to worry about. You assistants are very attached.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It can be. Especially since the attachment is mutual.”

“I’m not going to be Gertrude.”

Elias scoffs. “I hardly want that. Gertrude was a thorn in my side. But this is a role full of many dangers, Sasha, and your survival is much more important than theirs.”

“I can’t believe that. I refuse to believe that.” She looks down her nose at Elias with as much disdain as she can muster, drained as she still is.

“Believe what you will. It won’t change the truth.”

“You’re delusional. Has anybody ever told you that?”

“Yes,” Elias hums. “Gertrude. More than once.”

Sasha rolls her eyes.

“If you’re in a mood to be chatty, I have questions,” she tries.

“I’m never in a mood to be ‘chatty,’ but go on.”

Prick. “Jon. Nikola called him a ‘Scribe?’ What does that mean?”

Elias raises his eyebrows in a rare expression of surprise.

“I’d had my suspicions, but... hm. Very interesting. Scribes are something of an ancient sect of the Eye. Archivists are the keepers, guardians, and gatherers of knowledge, yes?”

“...Yes.”

“And they have always had assistants. And now, they always have tape recorders. But, for example, the Archive relative to the Library of Alexandria could hardly have had tape recorders.”

“So they had Scribes?”

“Chosen by the Eye. Essentially, human tape recorders.”

“So the camera stuff, the videos, that’s all because his role is to... keep a record?”

Elias murmurs, “Fascinating.” Clearer, “Yes, that does seem to be the case.”

“I... okay.” Sasha takes a deep breath. “One more thing. Since you’re excessively and unnecessarily unhelpful towards actually stopping the Unknowing...”

Elias sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“...Could we have an Institute-funded trip to America?”

He blinks.

“I don’t see why not.”

“Wonderful. I’ll email you the expenses.” And without another word, Sasha gets up and marches out of the office. She doesn’t slam the door behind her, but she really, really wants to.

—————

The video opens on Georgie and Jon at their studio table. The Admiral sits between them—unwilling, it seems, to leave their sides. Jon is wearing a t-shirt on camera for what might be the first time in recorded history. In what’s probably a statement of irony, it features Cam Jansen. The bandages around both of his wrists are on full display, but he otherwise seems fine. Georgie’s own graphic t-shirt features a very large and very zoomed-in picture of the Admiral.

“Hey, everyone,” Georgie waves, a little subdued and more than a little sheepish. “It’s, ah, it’s been about a week... sorry about the, the vanishing act,” she laughs, awkwardly, “that was unintentional. But!” She claps her hands together. “It’s been a week! Jon’s gotten the first good night’s sleep he’s had in a decade—“

“That is blatantly false.” Jon retorts.

“Not so, because ‘oops I fell asleep at my desk’ doesn’t count as a good night’s sleep. However, fifteen straight hours absolutely does, so good on you there.”

Jon rolls his eyes, but notably doesn’t refute her.

“Anyway!” Georgie continues. “We can actually tell you all what, ah, what went down. So... short version...” she gestures to Jon.

“I got kidnapped,” he says simply.

“Now the long version!”

“Sasha and I were both kidnapped by Breekon and Hope, taken to the House of Wax in Great Yarmouth, and held prisoner. We were supposed to be held prisoner there until the Unknowing—which I’ll get to—but Nikola Orsinov forgot about the.... heh. The power of friendship.”

“And that’s where we come in,” Georgie continues with a small laugh. “We found out they were both missing after like, three hours, so we got everyone together. Over the day figured out who took them, but not where or why. But Sasha’s police friend who shall remain mostly anonymous was able to find out where, because Jon left a spooky trail of breadcrumbs.”

“Accidentally.”

“Accidentally, but you still did.”

“Point.”

“Anyway! So by the next day, we were armed and ready for a rescue mission. For everyone wondering what the axes and whatever were for, it’s because we had to bash mannequin heads in on the way there.”

“I really wish I’d seen that,” Jon laughs.

“I wish you had too! We were awesome!” Georgie gestures broadly, nearly smacking Jon in the face. “We found Jon and Sasha, were properly horrified at everything, and got chased out of the museum by the replacer monster.”

“Now,” Jon interjects, “you might have noticed that this is only about two days’ worth of escapades, and we were missing for two weeks.”

“Thaaaat’s because of our lovely friend Michael, who we got to learn the backstory of, and it’s actually quite depressing. He helped us escape through his corridors. Buuuuuut since time is really weird with the Spiral...” Georgie trails off.

“What felt like a few hours in the hallways was actually two weeks,” Jon finishes.

“So... that’s really it, for the adventure,” Georgie shrugs. “We were dumped back in our flat, got to be traumatized for a few days, drank a hell of a lot of hot chocolate, made sure Sasha and Jon’s wrists weren’t getting infected because they’re idiots, and now we are making this video.”

“On to the Unknowing.” Jon fiddles with his glasses. “The Stranger is, ah... well... trying to cause something very bad, ah, using a ritual called. Well. The Unknowing. We’re working on it, obviously.”

“We’ve got our plans! You all just need to make sure that you stay far, far, far away from the House of Wax museum in Great Yarmouth. And honestly, away from anything that could be Stranger-aligned.”

“Mannequins, taxidermy, circuses, wax figures, and hypnotizing tables, although I don’t think that last one’s much of a problem now.” Jon clasps his hands together. “Just... be careful.”

“Please be careful,” Georgie insists. “It was honestly very touching to come back and see how worried you all were, and if anything happened to you guys we’d never forgive ourselves, alright?”

“We’ve, ah, we’ve got this, so to speak.”

“We’ve got this,” Georgie affirms. “Um... I’m Georgie Barker—“

“Oh—and uh, I’m Jonathan Sims—“

“And this has been... a very special episode of What the Ghost,” Georgie finishes. With a small wave from them both, the video clicks off.

—————

Comments 17k

birdie lee
I’M SORRY, YOU GOT KIDNAPPED AGAIN????

anatomicallyincorrect
WTFFFFFFFF HOW ARE YOU SO CASUAL ABOUT BEING KIDNAPPEEEDDDDD

ashley b
I’m glad you guys actually got sleep but please also get more I’m so concerned

Lizzie Mitchell
The police said they investigated the House of Wax and nothing was there?????
—
What the Ghost!
By then we were in the Spiral. Although it’s honestly doubtful they investigated at all. -J

beanbag
AAAAAAAA A A AA . AAAA

grubsong
current mood is the entire comment section mothering them. it’s what they deserve

ArtificialBrilliance
the past two weeks have been so stressful. so stressful. welcome back tho glad you’re all alright

CurtainCall
give us the forbidden michael backstory
—
What the Ghost!
Michael Shelley was a human sacrificed to the Spiral (by someone he trusted), kinda forcing it to become him, and for him to become it. Like I said. Depressing. -G
—
CurtainCall
well now I’m sad

Kit’s Cat
I am never going in a wax museum ever again

Fool of a Took
ok but How did you do that to your wrists
—
What the Ghost!
We were tied with rope. -J
—
Fool of a Took
alsnaksnksndksjdns???????

The Riskiest Biscuit
Georgie, Martin, Tim, and Melanie smashing mannequin heads in but with Toxic playing in the background

Clarissa P
Please stop getting injured. Please

Chapter Text

What the Ghost!
4 hours ago

We don’t have to pay for our trip to America anymore! What should we use the spooky jar money for?

Alcohol (11%)
Toys for the Admiral (27%)
Self-defense classes (38%)
Admission to haunted stuff in America (24%)