Chapter Text
Retrieval log of artefact #0162303, described as a cursed notebook by finder Manuela Dominguez. Artefact retrieved by Elias Bouchard, Head Secretary and Archivist for the Fanshawe Group, London.
[CLICK]
[SOUNDSCAPE: FAINT NOISE OF BACKGROUND CONVERSATION, TRAFFIC. TAPE RECORDER-TYPICAL AUDIO DISTORTIONS]
ARCHIVIST
(faint sound of rustling, as though he’s sitting up. A sigh.)
Ahem. Today is the… twenty-third of March, 2016. Not that, I presume, anyone will actually listen to this once I am done recording, but it’s good to keep a reference. Jon insists that I am to keep a tape running at all times—at least while I’m on the clock, or otherwise engaged in… (mirthless laugh) archival business, the result of which will no doubt be far more tapes filled with the background noises of London and the Magnus Building than anything of genuine interest. Certainly, if the archive we apparently possess is filled solely with thousands of cassette tapes documenting fifteen years’ worth of James Wright’s employment, it’s small wonder I was never even aware of its existence until yesterday.
Still, I may as well introduce myself, if only because I have nothing better to do while I wait. My name is Elias Bouchard. I have been an employee of the Fanshawe Group for Paranormal Research since 2009, when I joined as a file clerk in hopes of eventually working my way into a position in either Research or the Library. Unfortunately, despite my frankly stellar qualifications, the highest I was able to climb during that time period was to the role of Head Secretary—a step up from filing papers, to be sure, but still not what really drew me to the Group in the first place.
The discovery of the truth—that the supernatural is a genuine, active, verifiable presence at work in our world, was the single most important revelation of my life, but my early researches into it were stymied by mountains of false information and superstition. When I first discovered the Fanshawe Group, I was elated. While technically established in 1979, it traces its lineage all the way back to the early nineteenth century through several name changes and re-brands—the Paranormal Research Foundation, the Watcher’s Society, and the Magnus Institute, from which the building in which it still resides derives its name.
Despite the apparent lack of continuity, the Group has maintained the integrity of its dedication to the cause of practically investigating and safely harnessing the power of the supernatural for the benefit of humanity, the very goal I have attempted myself to pursue. In the years I have worked here, I have been impressed by the dedication and passion of the Researchers and of our Director, Mr. Jonathan Sims.
(heavy sigh)
Despite this, and despite my workplace seniority, I was recently passed up for a position on the Library team in favour of… Jane Prentiss, of all people. When I confronted Jon, he praised me for my… (exhale) ‘initiative’, and, rather than offering me a position on any practical research team, instead promoted me to the position of Archivist, to be taken on in addition to my other duties.
Considering that the position has stood empty since James Wright’s retirement in 2003 following an accident which rendered him blind, and considering that the job description I was given has less to do with any genuine archival work and more to do with retrieving and cataloguing extant paranormal artefacts, I suspect that ‘Archivist’ is merely a polite way to say ‘errand boy’.
Still, it’s more interesting than filling out spreadsheets all day. Despite the inconvenience of the tape recorder (the necessity of which I can… reluctantly concede, considering how the paranormal resists being documented), any step towards hands-on research is welcome. And I do appreciate the raise.
Please forgive the background noise. I am recording from a coffee shop on the corner of Russell Square—the Caffé Nero—as I wait for one Ms. Manuela Dominguez. It is currently… (faint rustling) 12:52 pm, which means that she ought to be here any minute. She called in a report to us three days ago regarding… (paper noises) ah, a cursed notebook, and my first proper ‘field assignment’ is to retrieve it.
The report also notes that she is a current student at University College London, which is very interesting indeed. Besides a single, extremely theatrical account of the ghost of a murdered medical student, and the persistent myths surrounding the auto-icon of Jeremy Bentham, UCL seems to be remarkably lacking in supposed hauntings for a campus of its age. And yet, the number of incidences and artifacts that we at the Group have traced to it is… notable. Perhaps it’s merely a matter of foundation; reportedly, Bentham was a close friend and correspondent of our own Dr. Jonathan Fanshawe.
[CLICK]
[CLICK]
[SAME CAFÉ BACKGROUND NOISE. SOUND OF APPROACHING FOOTSTEPS.]
ARCHIVIST
Hello—Ms. Dominguez?
MANUELA
Oh! Yes, that’s me. Manuela. Are you… ?
ARCHIVIST
Elias Bouchard, of the Fanshawe Group. A pleasure to meet you.
MANUELA
(relieved exhale) Oh, thank God.
ARCHIVIST
(small laugh) Quite. This is the book in question, then?
MANUELA
Yes, this is it—oh!
ARCHIVIST
Hm?
MANUELA
Just- the… gloves and stuff. I guess (exhaled half-laugh) I guess I didn’t really expect to, you know. Be taken seriously.
ARCHIVIST
(patiently, not quite patronising) Well, based on what you told us over the phone…
MANUELA
What, you never get any hoaxes?
ARCHIVIST
Always better safe than sorry. Especially when dealing with… these sorts of artefacts.
[A FEW FAINT THUMPING NOISES. THEN THE SOUND OF A HEAVY LATCH OR LOCK BEING CLICKED SHUT]
MANUELA
You… you wouldn’t believe what a relief it is to see it locked away like that.
ARCHIVIST
(trying for kind, still ends up kind of patronising) I think I might.
[SOUND OF A BAG BEING CLOSED]
ARCHIVIST (CONT)
Well then. There’s that. Now. Would you tell me your experience with this particular artefact? In as much detail as possible, please, if you don’t mind. Ah—are you alright if I record? It’s for the Research team.
MANUELA
Oh. No, of course that’s fine. Should I… should I start, then?
ARCHIVIST
Whenever you’re ready.
MANUELA (STATEMENT)
Well, I suppose I should begin by saying I’m a student at UCL, but you, uh, you knew that already. (slightly nervous laugh) I, uh, I won’t be, though. I mean, I’m going to be taking next term off. I’ve already cleared it with my advisor, and my academic record is such that despite what happened this term, I should still be in decent standing to return for autumn next year. If I return.
I’m not even staying for final exams. There’s no point. I’ve already packed my things up and said goodbye to my housemates. The last bit of business I had to attend to before I can drive back home and leave all of this behind me was talking to you.
I hope I can return, I really do. I love studying here. Did you know that UCL was the first college in the UK to accept female students? I know that sounds like… like a talking point, like something to exploit as a recruitment tool, but it honestly means a lot to me—especially in my field. Being here makes me feel like… not like I’m taking part in history, so much, but more that I’m taking part in what that history happened for. Like a legacy, I suppose. Perhaps part of it’s living in a proper city for the first time in my life. There’s just so much noise here, it’s almost as though you can feel the… the weight of all of the lives and years that have existed in this space pressing in on you. Not in a bad way, you understand. You just… can’t help but feel as though you’re part of something bigger.
I’m sorry. My friends have always said I should’ve gone for literature or something, with how fanciful I can sometimes get, but I’ve wanted to go for physics since I was a girl and I’ve never regretted it. Mathematics has its own kind of poetry, if you know how to see it. But sometimes my courses keep me buried up to my ears in calculations, equations… I swear sometimes during finals I dream in numbers, and that’s too much even for me.
Anyway, I think my bullet journal is all that keeps me sane sometimes. Have you heard of those? They became a pretty big internet phenomenon a while back. Supposedly, the idea is that if you made your own planner, tailored to your own life and needs, you’d be more likely to use it. I’ve never needed help with organisation, but most people use them as an excuse to make art, and I’m not an exception.
Oh, I don’t get as elaborate as some—I haven’t the time—but sketching in my next day’s or week’s schedule on paper is a nice piece of mindless relaxation that I can pass off to myself as productivity. I like the feeling of creating something beautiful, too, even if it’s just a few rough doodles on the margin of a page.
The point is, when I saw the notebook in the bookshop bargain bin, I thought it had to be a mistake. It was nice. I mean, really nice; stitched binding and indigo clothbound cover, paper I could’ve sworn had at least some cotton content… I’m sorry. That probably doesn’t mean a lot to you. But I’d have paid at least thirty pounds for it if I’d gotten it full price.
I flipped it open. There was something in the front cover, like a half-torn label, almost all gone, but otherwise it was pristine. I was a bit surprised to see that it was one of those books with black pages that you have to write on with white pastel or gel pen. Of course, that didn’t exactly turn me off. My concentration is astronomy; I was more than happy to have an entire notebook full of doodled stars. The paper was as good as I’d hoped—even better, actually. I’m a bit of a stationery nut, if you can’t tell, and I’ve eyed sketchbooks like that before in shops. Most of them aren’t really black, just murky off-green or -brown or something, but these pages seemed to absorb everything, making the paper seem… depthless. I thought at the time—and this is rather uncomfortable in retrospect—that it seemed like it was eating the photons.
This was just the bookshop in the basement of the Wilkins building, you know? I was there looking for my textbooks and maybe some pens, but I’m a uni student; of course I checked the sales. But the notebook wasn’t priced specifically, so I brought it up to the register half-convinced it was a mistake. But the girl who worked there didn’t seem to recognise it, and apparently there wasn’t an entry in the inventory when she checked for black-paged sketchbooks. It was near closing and she clearly wanted me out of there, so she finally said that some student must have dropped it, and if it wasn’t in the system then it wasn’t her problem and I could have it. I actually felt kind of guilty about that, but it’s not as though I was going to argue with her.
I don’t know what else to say about it. The novelty of new stationery wears off quickly, even nice stationery, and before the week was out it had just become a part of my routine. But things started going wrong for me after that.
It was little, at first. Maybe there were earlier incidents, but the first time I really noticed something being weird was when I lost my class. I mean, it’s not exactly a large campus, and I’m in my third year. I know my way around. Besides, this was near the end of the second week of term, so I really should have known where I was going. But I opened up my notebook, just idly, you know, to check what my next class was. Atomic and Molecular Physics, over in the department building by the North Cloisters. And… and I looked up again and I knew that I knew where the building was, but for the life of me, the information wouldn’t come. As strange as it may seem, I started walking anyway. I guess if pressed I’d say I assumed muscle memory would take me where I needed to go, but honestly I was only halfway paying attention, dwelling instead on an article I’d read the previous night about dark matter. It’s funny. I remember the day clearly; bright and high overcast, but when I think back on the memory it’s as though I was pressing through thick, swirling shadows. It’s all very dim, even now.
When I snapped out of it again, about ten minutes later, I remembered where I was supposed to be, and also realized that I was on the opposite end of campus. Even then it didn’t strike me as particularly odd. I’m a STEM student; I’m used to the occasional zone-out. The usual culprit is sleeplessness or stress, though I’d actually slept particularly well that week. I assume so, at least. Now that I mention it, throughout the entirety of last term, I can’t recall a single one of my dreams.
I shook it off, annoyed at myself for missing my class, but it wouldn’t be the first time I’d skipped, and I knew could afford to, so I just wrote it off as a weird incident and put it from my mind. I went back to my room and took an early night.
The next morning, I went to each of my classes to find out I’d done none of my homework. Again, this isn’t… I’m not a bad student. Quite the opposite, in fact, if that doesn’t sound too arrogant. So I’ve gotten used to being able to miss the occasional lecture or assignment and fully make up for it during exams. Still, I usually know when I’m going to be missing them. They’re just… prioritized lower than studying or sleep. That happens, you know; sometimes a clear head is worth more to your grade than an attendance mark. But just forgetting everything… it was like the floor dropped out from under me. I couldn’t believe it; I’m never like that. And the worst part was that I kept forgetting why I felt that way. I was walking around all day in that kind of guilty panic you get when you’ve, I don’t know, lost your keys or something, and I wouldn’t remember why until I opened up my notebook again and saw the due dates penned in, stark white against the dark page—due dates of assignments I hadn’t completed.
I took to writing everything down after that, and, well, I suppose you can guess how well that went. The thing was—I say ‘forgetting’, but that’s not what it felt like at all. I knew I had the information, every time I didn’t go to class, or do my assignments, or when I did go to lecture and start on my homework only to realise I couldn’t remember a thing the professor had said. It just felt like the knowledge was locked away behind a… a dark, heavy velvet curtain, and all I’d have to do was try harder, just a little harder, to see behind it. If I didn’t know something it was my fault for being… lazy or something, not trying harder to reach for it. The only time I could keep those things in my head was when I was looking right at the written information, which more often than not was in that notebook. I don’t know why I stopped using my normal spiral-bound notebooks. It doesn’t make much sense to me in retrospect, but I’d started keeping even my school notes in white pen.
There would be times when I’d look up and realise that my memories of the past… minute, or hour, or day even, were just so much black. It never felt like I lost time, per se; I was never worried I’d been… I don’t know, controlled or something. The memories… seemed like they were normal, but whenever I tried to think of them it was just like it was... too much effort. But the very worst came during my Linear Algebra midterm. I didn’t quite black out; I remember all too clearly the sensation flipping through the pages of the exam, the sinking feeling as I tried and tried to come up with something, anything, for any of the questions. And I couldn't. My attendance hadn't been as good as normal, sure, but I had been in most of the lectures; I should have been able to... to push back the weird brainfog and come up with something. But I just felt dull and heavy and like my thoughts were drenched in thick ink and I... I couldn't.
It seemed like just a few minutes before I heard the rest of the class shuffling out and looked up at the clock. My two hours were up, and I’d not written down a single answer. I hadn’t even written my name. I started to panic. I mean, literally; I was trembling as I left my empty test on the desk and blindly exited the classroom. There was a toilet just down the hall and I ducked in and I… I had a panic attack. One of the worst I’ve had since leaving home, actually. It just went on and on, and I was trembling and crying and, and just gasping, I couldn’t get my throat to work, couldn’t get the air in… well. Standard panic attack stuff. I just didn’t understand. I’ve always been a good student, always. I know my degree is a difficult one, and a lot of students don’t make it, but I never doubted… I just felt so stupid, and I know I’m not stupid. I’d never done anything like that before.
Pretty soon it was every day, every class. I could pay attention just fine in the moment, could write down everything word-for-word, but whenever I tried to retrieve it, it was like those shadows would rise up in my mind, until all I could focus on was what I was physically seeing—the page in front of me, my pencil, or, as often as not, that damned notebook. I was having panic attacks multiple times a week, or sometimes even every day, just living in this constant, unending stress and self-recrimination.
I tried everything. Slept more, exercised more, changed my diet, joined study groups, and when each of those failed, just kind of… holed myself up in my room with coffee, trying desperately to memorise something, anything. I just… couldn’t.
You know, I even tried going to my TA once? I had an assignment due and I asked her for help, because I was not getting a single thing. She looked over what had, which was nothing, basically, and told me that she wasn't going to do my work for me, but if I had specific questions she'd be happy to answer them after I'd put a little effort in on my own. When I explained I'd been up all night trying to complete it, she just gave me this look of pity and told me that the hard sciences weren't for everyone, and perhaps I just wasn't cut out for the course. I didn't know what to say--she was wrong, of course, but despite it all I felt that she was right. All I had to do was just try a little harder, just apply myself a little more...
It probably sounds stupid to you that I didn’t connect it to the notebook sooner, but you have to understand how far-fetched that seemed. I mean, I guess you might deal with this kind of thing every day, but I certainly don’t. I just couldn’t understand what was happening. My mum was quite devout, and though my dad’s been less so since her death, I’ve been a steady atheist since I was old enough to know what that meant. To me, there was nothing in the world that couldn’t be explained by scientific investigation. It was far easier for me to believe that I was just being lazy, or a poor student, than that I was being… cursed by a book.
It was my history course that tipped me off. Ironic, really, because despite what I said before about the romance of history, practically speaking I’ve never had much use for it. I like things that work by rules I can understand, and so much of history just seems to be extraneous facts, names and dates I can never keep straight. I don’t think that’s unusual. I was only in the class to fulfil some graduation requirement for the humanities. If I was losing information, history should have been the first to go.
I know I said before that I've skipped classes, but honestly I do try not to—when the class is actually important. But I could care not a whit about the ‘Early Roman Republic’, or whatever it was. It won’t help me at all in my life. I’m aware I can be a bit… single minded, but honestly. I’d show up to most of the lectures, sure, but I never took notes or anything. Just kind of listened, and hoped I could cram from the book well enough to get a C or something.
I went to my history midterm, and it was… fine. Normal. Sure, I didn’t ace it or anything, but I got a solid B minus, which is about what I would have expected. No weird, shadowy brainfog, no zone-outs. I just sat down, filled in my test, and left.
It’s funny, because I’d never suspected the notebook had anything to do with it before, but the moment I recognised that something more was going on, it was like I couldn’t imagine it possibly being caused by anything else. It was just so obvious, all of a sudden. Like information I’d already had, just been blocked somehow from seeing.
So I started experimenting. Found a bunch of facts about random topics, mostly trivia from old television shows I was sure I’d never watch, and studied them. Then I used a website to make up a multiple choice test and wrote down half of the facts randomly into the notebook. I waited for a day, in case it needed time to take, then tested myself to see what I remembered and what I didn’t.
It wasn’t a double-blind—hell, it wasn’t even a single-blind—and I couldn’t bear to bring any of my friends or housemates into it so the sample size of my experiment was a grand total of one. Still, I… it was enough for me to be certain. In a way it was almost a relief, you know? Because it wasn’t my fault. But on the other hand, if it was my fault it would be something I could fix, and… I didn’t know how to fix this, how to get back the information I’d lost. I mean, which is worse? Knowing you’re in control and you’ve effed up, or knowing you never had any control to begin with?
I… I admit I kind of panicked at that point. All of the stress, the confusion, and, quite frankly, the sleeplessness was catching up to me. I didn’t spare a thought to, to actually trying to study the thing in more depth. I mean, I had a genuine supernatural notebook in my possession. I should’ve at least been a bit curious. Instead I was just suddenly, incandescently furious at how this… this thing was ruining my chances at a degree. The flat I was letting with my friends didn’t have a hearth, and to be honest I was too ashamed to let them find out about what was going on, anyway. I knew I could prove that the notebook did what I said it did, but somehow the thought of approaching any one of them claiming to have a cursed object just made me cringe. So I emptied out my bin, opened all the windows in my room, and disabled the smoke alarm in the hall. Then I dumped half a bottle of Jenna’s nail polish remover on top of the book and set it on fire.
As you’ve probably surmised, it didn’t take. The acetone vapour caught readily enough, and for a moment it was wreathed in orange fire, spreading up the sides of the bin. Then it went dark. Not just ordinary shadow, I mean. I had the lights on, and I couldn’t see past the rim of the bin at all. It was just dark, just inky black like those pages, but instead of reminding me of the clear void of the night sky, this darkness seemed almost… thick. Like a, a positive entity, instead of just a lack of light.
I reached in. I don’t know why. I know it was foolish. Probably I should have been scared, but I had been scared for weeks and now I just desperately wanted to be angry. It was only a moment before I snatched my hand back out again, just long enough to realise that the book hadn’t extinguished the flames, just… obscured them somehow. I didn’t get any of the acetone on my hand, thank God, so the worst injury it caused me was a couple of blisters, but it hurt, and I might have shrieked a bit.
I left after that. Again, it was stupid, leaving what amounted to an open flame in my bedroom, but I couldn’t be alone in there with that… pit of oily blackness. I went for a walk. It was dark outside, too, by then, but even so it seemed so much lighter than it was in my room, even though I’d left all of my lights on. I told myself I’d gave it three hours, more than enough time for the amount of acetone I’d used to burn. By then my anger had gone, leaving me cold and more skittish than I’d ever been in my life, jumping at every shadow I passed. But I was more afraid of what was in my room than anything out there in the London night.
But when I final screwed myself up to go back, everything seemed… normal, for lack of a better word. The flames were out, that terrible dark was gone; it was just a book in a bin. My lights were out, when I’m certain I left them on, but compared to everything else that was so small and mundane that it was almost laughable.
The book itself was seemingly untouched, and only a little warm when I picked it back up. The pages were blank again when I flipped through it, just the same as the day I’d bought it. But I can’t shake the feeling that my writing is still there, not gone, just… just obscured.
I hope not. By then, of course, it was too late for any of my grades to be salvageable, even History, which I’d neglected once I started really spiraling. But I was able to talk my way into credit/no credit, claiming mental health issues, and request a voluntary leave of absence. Maybe by next year whatever hold the book had on me will be gone, and I’ll be able to retake the courses I failed. I haven’t tried reviewing my textbooks, yet. I… I can’t. I can only hope getting rid of the thing is enough.
ARCHIVIST
(finally managing a modicum of genuineness) Well, if you ever do decide not to pursue your degree, you ought to enquire at the Group. That kind of experimental attitude is exactly what we like to see in our candidates. Even if, in this case, it was remarkably dangerous.
MANUELA
(uncomfortable) Oh. Thanks, but I think I’ll stick to physics for the moment. So, you believe me?
ARCHIVIST
Of course. As you say, we deal with this kind of thing regularly. Unfortunate, really. That which we call the occult, paranormal, supernatural--whatever descriptor one chooses to apply--has such potential… and more often than not we find objects like this one, which seem to have been created with the sole intention of causing harm.
MANUELA
Yeah. Well. Is that… all then? Nothing else I have to do?
ARCHIVIST
I do have one question for you.
MANUELA
Go ahead.
ARCHIVIST
That label, in the front of the notebook. Was any of it still… legible? Did it say anything?
MANUELA
Oh! Um, there wasn’t any visible writing, at least that I could see, but one corner was still mostly there and there was a bit of a design still visible. It looked like… a stylized eye, perhaps? But I couldn’t really tell. Sorry; I think the fire destroyed whatever was left of it.
ARCHIVIST
An… hm. Thank you, Manuela. You’ve been very helpful. Would you like a follow-up report sent to you on anything our Research Team happens to find regarding this artifact?
MANUELA
I… No. No thank you. As fascinating as I’m sure it is… I think I’d like to put this all behind me, if it’s all the same to you.
ARCHIVIST
Of course. Very well, then. Thank you for your time.
MANUELA
I can’t exactly say it was my pleasure, but… yeah. I hope you guys find it more useful than I did.
[CLICK]
[CLICK]
ARCHIVIST
An eye motif. If she’s correct, then that’s… interesting. I think I’ll recommend a copy of this report be given to Mike Crew in the Library. Perhaps he’ll have some insight to share.
[CLICK]