Chapter Text
“Sash, hold on, okay. Explain again.”
Sasha ran a hand through her hair, snarling harmlessly at the two men sat across the breakroom table. Martin and Tim both sat with their respective lunches, canned soup for Martin and leftover takeout for Tim. Her own Tupperware of pasta steamed in front of her.
“I think you heard me perfectly well, Stoker,” Sasha stabbed a piece of rotini with her shitty plastic fork. “Can we skip to the part where you tell me I’m out of my mind, then?”
“Never said you were out of your mind,” Tim held up his hands in a sign of good-natured defense. “I just want to make sure I’m getting the facts right is all.”
“Facts won’t make it any less crazy,” she shoved her forkful into her mouth, speaking grumpily around the bite. “Trust me, I was looking for a logical reason for this all night.”
Martin gently stirred his soup, eyebrows furrowed in concern. “Have you told Jon about this?”
Sasha snorted. “Are you kidding me? You see how he tears statements apart day after day. You really expect him to take me seriously?”
“But if it’s you though, and it’s about –“
“Then he won’t trash talk me until I’ve left the room.”
“How many times has it been?” Tim asked, his lunch largely ignored in front of him. “How many times have you seen her?”
Sasha pushed pasta around her stained plastic bowl, glaring at the noodles as though they had done her some personal affront. “Three nights in a row, now. Always the same time, always the same path.”
“I think you should tell Jon,” Martin insisted.
“I’m not telling Jon, not –“
The door to the breakroom swung open and all conversation stopped. Jonathan Sims, eyes framed with dark circles, moved like a man on a mission toward the coffee pot. Only after pulling down a chipped mug, filling it to the rim, and turning to leave did he notice the three pairs of eyes trained on his gangly frame. He paused mid-sip, staring right back at his three assistants.
He brought his cup away from his lips, face fixed in his familiar unamused snarl. “Why are you all so quiet? I’ve never seen you all quiet at the same time, not even during staff meetings.”
“Just taking in the view, boss,” Tim winked.
Jon scowled, made a light noise of disapproval. “If this has anything to do with Elias’s email about budget cuts, then trust me, none of you are losing your job this round of lay-offs -” Jon brought the mug back to his lips and took his leave, growling under his breath “believe me, I asked.”
An uneasy silence still sat over the archival assistants as they watched the breakroom door swing shut.
Sasha gently snapped the lid back onto her Tupperware. “Tonight. Eleven thirty. Meet me in the archives.”
Martin grimaced. “Tonight? I have, uh, plans tonight.”
“Plans that go until midnight? Right on, Mart-o,” Tim knocked shoulders with him, smirking as the larger man blushed. “I’ll be there. If Sash isn’t crazy you can come the next night, how’s that?”
“I want all of us to see it before we tell Jon,” Sasha insisted. “One of us he can call crazy, two of us a prank, but all three? He’d have to believe us.”
Martin looked from Sasha to Tim, from Tim to Sasha.
He sighed. “Fine. You two go tonight, and tomorrow night I’ll see if it’s really there.”
He had a bad feeling about this.
‘’
“Martin, holy shit, she’s right.” – a muffled “Of course I’m right!” from the background.
Martin squinted at the clock on his bedside table, brain still fuzzy with lingering scents of care homes and his mum’s perfume. “Tim, it’s two am.”
"Martin, there is a fucking ghost in the archives and you’re worried about sleep? C’mon –“
“I’ll see it tomorrow, then.”
“Martin –“
“Goodnight, Tim,” Martin hung up the call.
‘’
Sasha swung open the main doors of the institute at 11:45 pm the following night. She kicked the brick in the door Tim had left into the nearby decorative foliage. Martin shivered in the cool January air, looking nervously around as Sasha slipped inside.
“C’mon, Martin, we’re already late,” Sasha called quietly, clicking on her torch as she disappeared into the dark depths of the Magnus Institute. Martin darted after her before the door could swing shut.
The sound of his and Sasha’s steady footsteps bounced off the high ceilings as they crept through the foyer, Sasha’s torch casting eerie shadows about the regal space.
“Why were you even here this late in the first place?” Martin trudged behind Sasha and her light, fingers curled around two thermoses of tea, one for Tim and one for himself.
“Honestly? I stayed late to look into the Amy Patel case and ended up falling asleep at my desk,” Sasha laughed. “Woke up to that stupid meme Tim sent in the group chat – the weird anthropology one? – and ended up seeing her on my way out.”
They began their descent into the archives, Sasha still in the lead with a jumpy Martin trailing behind. The torchlight bobbeds as Sasha uncaps her own thermos of tea for a sip.
“I thought Jon was the one who always stayed late?” Martin eyed the looming doorway at the end of the stairs.
“Oh, he talks a big game but he’s typically out of here at nine or so,” Sasha sipped her tea. “I think he brings stuff home, though, so who knows how late he ends up working in reality.”
“Right.”
“Do you still not believe me?” Sasha looked back at him briefly, opening the door to the archive and holding it for him. He stepped into the bowels of the institute, some sort of bass heavy music echoing off the cool walls of the archives and sending a chill down his spine.
“Didn’t say that,” Martin mumbled.
“Sash? Martin?” Tim’s voice echoed from the office across from Jon’s. “That you? I made popcorn!”
Martin wasn’t facing her, but he could almost feel Sasha rolling her eyes.
A gentle light poured from the door of the archival assistant office, yellow pooled across the cement floors, muted music pouring from the inside. They approached, Sasha clicking off her torch, Martin clutching both thermoses of tea a little tighter. Tim sat at his desk – well, on his desk, feet on the rolling chair meant for sitting. His eyes brightened and he smiled as they stepped into the light cast by his desk lamp and laptop--the source of the music. A hefty bowl of popcorn sat beside him on the desk, making the whole room smell of delicious butter.
“I can’t believe you actually made popcorn,” Sasha scoffed, setting her torch down on her own desk and plucking a few pieces from the bowl. “I tell you to lay low until we get here and you make the loudest microwave food you can think of?”
“Oh, come off it. Jon went home hours ago, and I haven’t seen anyone since him all night,” Tim set his laptop next to him on the desk. His eyes settled on Martin. “Is that tea? Did you bring tea to a fucking ghost hunt?”
“Uh,” Martin blinked. “Yeah? Was – was I supposed to bring something else?”
Tim made grabby hands at the thermoses. “Martin Blackwood, you are a fucking gift. You make the best tea in London and I would have you bring nothing else.”
Martin flushed lightly and handed over the bulkier of the thermoses – more insulation. Tim uncapped the drink and took a satisfied inhale before taking a sip.
“Well, we’ve got about five minutes, I think,” Sasha glanced at her watch. “Any last doubts, Martin?”
Martin flushed all over again.
“Wait, you still don’t believe us?” Tim peered at Martin over the edge of his thermos.
“I- I didn’t, It’s not that I don’t - don’t believe you, I just –“
“Scared?” Tim asked. Martin’s jaw clicked shut. He nodded silently. “I’d be worried if you weren’t scared. I’m scared, and I’ve seen her. Trust me, she’s very real.”
“Guys.”
“I’m sure she is, but I’m not –‘
“Hey, guys.”
“-gonna take ghost stories at their face value, I mean- “
“GUYS.”
Tim and Martin looked to Sasha, who was looking to the doorway. Sasha, who was looking to the faintly glowing figure that hovered in front of Jon’s office. Martin froze.
The woman decked in cardigans and spectacles looked unseeingly into the office. Her hair was tight in a bun, her skin was loose on her skeleton, her body limp but still standing, her eyes her eyes her eyes. Martin couldn’t look at her eyes. There was something about her eyes her eyes he-
“Martin,” Tim gripped his sleeve, bringing back to the present. There was still a ghost before them, a ghost of a woman not yet confirmed dead – well, Martin Blackwood was here, in the archives, staring at some pretty solid confirmation. Tim shook him a little. “You okay?”
“You’re joking, right?” Martin tore his gaze away to gawk at Tim. “We’re stood in front of Gertrude Robinson’s ghost and you’re asking me if I’m okay?”
“Wanted to make sure you weren’t going into shock or something-“
“She’s moving,” Sasha announced, pushing past the boys to follow as the glowing figure began to slowly make her way down the hallway.
Martin looked to Tim, who only raised his eyebrows in response. They followed behind, their thermoses left on the desk, the laptop still spilling quiet music.
Their little trio trailed behind Gertrude, moving their way to a heavy door at the end of the hall. Gertrude moved as though opening that door and disappeared behind the heavy oak, with Sasha quick to grapple with the actual thing and follow behind. Suddenly, the three were following the glowing figure through the dark, dark stacks of the archive.
The ghost turned down seemingly random aisles of the stacks for what felt like hours. It felt like a dream. Like limbo. Like fucking purgatory. Or hell, it could definitely be hell, Martin mused. Tim still clutched the end of his sweater, and Martin, taking up the rear, wouldn’t be surprised if Tim’s other hand was somehow latched onto Sasha, who led the way.
When Sasha stopped, Tim bumped lightly into her, his hold on Martin tightening momentarily. Gertrude, about two dozen paces in front of them, had stopped, knelt, and fiddled. They watched, frozen, as she straightened again, took two steps, and disappeared into the floor below.
All was dark and quiet, then, the tension thick in the air and in their lungs. The sound of Tim’s frightened breaths was the only unit of time Martin could measure for heavy beats.
“Where did she go?” Martin’s voice echoed in the silence.
“The trapdoor’s there. She did this the last few nights, too,” Sasha’s voice is frail. “I waited for her the second night for an hour or so. She didn’t come out.”
“The trapdoor we keep loc –“
“Yeah.”
The silence settled back between them filled only by the faint rustling of fabric. A light blinded the three of them for a few seconds as Sasha turned on her phone’s torch. She pointed the beam at the ground, illuminating the lower half of their faces and casting deep shadows on their features. Martin could see Tim now had a grip on Sasha’s hand not holding the phone.
They all stared at each other in the shoddy light.
“Well. What now, then?” Tim’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.
Martin let out a shaky breath. “We need to tell Jon.”
Sasha and Tim locked eyes and looked to Martin. They nodded.
‘’
The Magnus Weekly Message – Week of Jan 18th
From: Elias Bouchard ([email protected])
To: [All Institute Staff] [All Volunteers]
Happy Monday, all.
It is of the utmost importance that we all communicate as an Institute, so I appreciate those of you who have reached out to me to help improve these weekly update emails and make them feel more useful. I hope you are seeing improvements in these memos with every passing week.
To address what I’m sure you are all actually reading this email for: No, there is no update on the whereabouts of previous Head Archivist, Gertrude Robinson. The authorities have assured me they are doing their best to follow up on any leads. At this time, Ms. Robinson is still presumed dead. Jonathan Sims has filled her role, but we are still following her case and hoping for her safety. If you have any information you believe could help the investigation, please contact myself or PC Basira Hussain.
Now, I would also like to address the concerns about the budget cuts discussed in last week’s email. Those no longer continuing their careers here at the Institute were informed before Thursday’s email. All personnel who have not received word of their leave have no need for concern. I trust that the panic can dwindle now.
Our shout-outs for the week:
Everyone wish Nicole from Artefact storage a happy birthday this Tuesday! Sending warm wishes…
‘’
Click.
Jonathan Sims leant back in his desk chair, scrubbing a hand through his hair (and he needed to cut his hair, needed to find time to cut his hair) and glaring at the now-still tape recorder now on his desk (his desk, Gertrude’s desk, his desk). With the adrenaline of statement reading gone, he could hear the familiar chatter of Tim from across the hall, muffled laughter from Martin, snide remarks from Sasha (Sasha, this should have been Sasha’s office, not –). It should not have been comforting, these sounds. But should didn’t mean much these days, did it?
A knock at his door startled him from his thoughts.
He straightened in his chair, gathering the loose pages of the statement into a pile and hastily shoving a paperclip onto them as he called out for the knocker to come in. Ready for Tim or Sasha or (god forbid) Martin to come through the door, he fixed his face into a passive frown. However, the door opened to reveal –
“Elias, I – did, did we have a meeting?” Jon shuffled more papers on his desk in a feeble attempt to look put together, but likely signaling exactly the opposite.
Elias smiled warmly (warm like a sticky humid night, maybe) and softly closed the door behind him. “No, no, you’re alright, Jon. Just wanted to pass this off to you –“ He laid a manila folder on Jon’s (Gertrude’s) desk. “It’s the last of the paperwork. Once you have this filled out you will officially be our new Head Archivist.”
Jon stared at the folder. “Right. Thank you.”
Elias, still standing on the other side of the desk, all sharp edges and pressed suits, looked down at Jon. He cocked his head to the side lightly. “How is the new position finding you? All settled in?”
Jon tried to smile at his boss, really, but it came off as more of a grimace. “I am certainly learning a lot. The organization of the archives themselves is going to need a lot of work, but I am sure we’ll get it in working order. The recording aspect isn’t going particularly well, though, I admit. Tapes weren’t exactly what I envisioned when I planned on digitizing the archives.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out Jon. You’re a smart man.”
“Hm.” Jon shoved his bangs from his face (he needed to cut his hair he looked unprofessional no good no good).
Elias looked at him inquisitively, eyebrows drawing together, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening ever so slightly. “You know, Jon, I see a lot of myself in you – curious, ambitious-“ His lips twitched into a small smirk. “- prickly.”
“I’m not- “
“Yes yes, I’m sure you’re not,” Elias was smiling now, back to his warm, sticky smile. “But that aside, you haven’t been promoted for no reason, you know. A position needed to be filled and I’m confident that I chose the best man for the job.”
Jon glared at the stack of papers on his desk, cheeks red at the (not true just flattery not tr-) compliment.
“Th-thank you, Elias,” Jon’s voice was quieter than he intended.
Elias nodded his head slowly. “You’re welcome,” he stepped back from the desk, and Jon felt like he could breathe again. “Now, I’m sure you have better things to be doing than listening to me prattle on. I’ll let you get back to it.”
“Uh, yes. Thank you.” Jon only watched as Elias gave him one last smile before disappearing into the hallway.
Silence fell over Jon’s office, only interrupted by the soft thud of his forehead hitting the wood of his desk.
“Fuck.”
‘’
Knock knock
Martin stood, nervous, before Jon’s office door. One hand was still lightly poised over the wood to knock, the other clutching the handle of a steaming mug. Jon had already yelled at him several times for interrupting statements, and he could really do without that today. He waited for a response, but none came. He tried again.
Knock knock.
Silence again.
“Jon?”
Carefully, slowly, Martin twisted the handle of the door, opening it just enough to peer into with one eye.
“Jo-?”
Martin paused at the sight. Jon slumped over his desk, head against the tabletop, hands linked over the back of his head. The muffled sound of muttering could be heard even from Martin’s place on the other side of a door. For a moment he could only stare, eyes wide as he took in the sight of his grumpy, attracti- his asshole boss in seemingly a moment of private distress.
He tried to back up, close the door and leave Jon – this ghost business can come later, really – when he fucking tripped over his step backwards and –
And, long story short, with a cup of tea in one hand and only one hand to catch himself against the door frame, Martin would be even more worried about Jon if he didn’t notice Martin basically slam himself into the door to avoid falling back.
When Martin’s eyes settled back on Jon’s desk, the man in question was, in fact, staring at Martin with a frazzled, panicked expression playing across his features.
“S-Sorry, I –“ Martin started, feeling his cheeks bloom with embarrassment.
“What do you want?” snapped Jon, hastily wiping at his face and shoving a hand through his lengthy curls.
“Nothing – I mean I can come back – I brought tea but –“
Jon’s eyes dragged to the mug in Martin’s hand. “I thought I told you I don’t need tea.”
“You kind of looked like you did just now, no offense?” the words slipped from Martin’s lips before he could process them. Instantly, a new flush of embarrassment came over him as he realized he basically just admitted to peering into Jon’s office.
Instead of the lecture Martin expected, though, Jon simply bristled lightly, looking from the tea to Martin. He sighed. “Perhaps I do, yes.”
Martin blinked.
Carefully, he made his way into Jon’s office, placing the mug on the desk and watching Jon gently fold shaking hands around it. The moment seems fragile, like at any moment Jon may realize he was showing some sort of nicety to Martin Blackwood of all people, but Jon simply raised the cup to his lips and took a tentative sip.
The moment was fragile, and yet Martin knew he needed to break it.
“Are you alright?” he figured was a good place to start.
“Fine,” Jon said, but his shaking hands and wary gaze said otherwise. Martin idly wondered if Jon had been alright for even a moment since taking the job of Head Archivist. “Was there anything you needed or was this just one of your –“ his expression shifted into something lightly annoyed “-deliveries.”
“Uh, actually,” Martin shifted from foot to foot. “I did have, I mean I wanted to – to inform you about –“
“Martin.”
“There’s something you should know.”
“Which is?”
Martin swallowed. “Gertrude Robinson is haunting the archives?”
Jon stared. He stared for a moment, two, and took a sip of his tea. The steam fogged his glasses, but he seemed to pay it no mind, instead looking at Martin as though he made about as much sense as an abstract painting.
Then he said just one thing, more of a hiss than a word – “Explain.”
“We-we saw her, Gertrude, last night in the archives. She went from here, from your office to the stacks and went into that – that trapdoor-“
“We?” Jon pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Tim, Sasha and I. Just around midnight she appeared.”
Jon was silent again for a moment, eyes now shut tightly. “And what in God’s name were you doing in the archives at midnight?”
“Well, Sasha said she saw it but wanted backup and so me and Tim –“
“Okay. No. I’ve heard enough. I don’t know what sort of horrid joke you’re trying to play on me, but I don’t appreciate being mocked as such.”
“Jon-“
“Get back to work.”
The door to Jon’s office creaked. Both men whirled around to stare at the two familiar figures standing in the doorway: Sasha with her knuckles white around a chipped mug of coffee and Tim with furrowed eyebrows looking between Jon and Martin.
Tim’s eyes settle on Martin. “I thought we said we were gonna tell him about this together.”
“You aren’t all seriously trying to tell me Gertrude Robinson is haunting the archives, are you?” Jon sat back in his chair. “Am I honestly supposed to accept that?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Sasha piped in.
Jon stared at them with wide, annoyed eyes. “Why are you telling me any of this?”
“Well considering it’s your predecessor coming from your office, we figured you may want to hear about it,” Tim gave Jon an incredulous look.
“That’s not all, though,” Martin said and then instantly shrank as all three turned to look at him. “There was – her, she had something with her eyes? They were, uh…wrong?”
“Wrong?” Jon asked at the same time Sasha asked “What do you mean her eyes?” Tim peered at Martin inquisitively, also seemingly not following Martin’s line of thought.
Martin froze. “What do you mean what do you mean?”
“Her eyes were odd, sure, but no weirder than the rest of her,” Sasha’s eyebrows furrowed.
“They-they were worse, though, they were- they were like she could see through you almost?” Martin babbled. “You had to have noticed that, right?”
“Sorry, Mart-o, you’re on your own with that one,” Tim’s expression turned slightly more worried than inquisitive.
Martin looked between the two of them, ready to throw accusations of hazing him or lying, when Jon’s deep tone interrupted his thoughts.
“Midnight, you said she comes around?” he waited until Sasha nodded. “And how many nights has this been that you’ve seen her?”
“Five including last night,” Sasha said. “Tim’s seen it twice and Martin just the once.” Her eyes settled on Martin again, questions still swimming in her expression.
“And I’m assuming you want me to see it – this, this ghost,” Jon’s voice was bitter around the shape of that word.
Silently, the three assistants nodded.
Jon sighed. “If this is a prank, I’m making you all do overtime work.”
“Does that mean you’ll see it?” Martin asked.
“If there’s anything to see, then yes.” He took a sip of tea.
Martin couldn’t help but feel as though they’d just made a mistake.
‘’
RE: Research Request?
From: Elias Bouchard ([email protected])
To: Melanie King ([email protected])
Hello Miss King,
Thank you for reaching out. I’ve received some choice words from our Head Archivist, Jonathan Sims, about your work with Ghost Hunt UK, and all your paperwork does seem to be in order. As such, I have cleared it with our Head Librarian, Diana Mason, and you are all set to access our materials here at the Institute. Any of the materials in the library are free to be accessed during our opening hours and certain materials can be checked out if necessary. Access to our artefact storage will have to come on a case-by-case basis, however, as some of our artefacts are rather dangerous and the Institute would rather not be liable for any harm that comes as a result of handling.
While I admit I myself have never seen your show, I understand it is quite popular. When you came in to make your statement you drew the attention of several of our younger staff members as well as other researchers who use our resources. If you feel our services are valuable to your show, then it would be much appreciated to have any sort of “shout-out” in your videos. It is no secret that our funding has taken a hit in the past few months, so any outreach opportunities for the Institute would be very welcomed.
Thank you again for your interest – we look forward to working with you in the future.
Elias Bouchard
Head of the Magnus Institute, London
''
They wait.
When the clock struck five, Sasha and Tim disappeared to do a takeaway and coffee run, and while Martin had expected Jon to continue toiling away at statements and paperwork until someone physically forced him to stop, Jon had other ideas. Martin was halfway through scribbling oddball lines of poetry into his notebook – prose and metaphors and the like – when Jon all but jumpscared him, poking his head in the door of the assistants’ shared office and asking if Martin was making tea.
Martin wasn’t sure how they ended up in the breakroom, Jon leant against the counter cradling a cuppa and Martin sat at the table explaining the proper steeping temperatures of tea. Jon seemed curious, which was surprising, and Martin felt competent enough to explain, which was also surprising in the presence of one (handso- stop it) Jonathan Sims. Martin would daresay it was comfortable between the two of them for possibly the first time since Martin had properly met the man. Well, that is, comfortable until –
Bzzt bzzt.
“Ah, sorry, just let me –“ Jon prattled, eyebrows furrowing as he dug his phone from the pocket of his (really rather well-fit- stop) dark jeans. He peered at the screen, eyes flitting over words, mouth pulling into a deep frown. The silence stretched between the two of them as Jon unlocked his phone and read over whatever was so disturbing him.
“Alright, there?” Martin’s voice did not shake, but his hands did ever so slightly as the silence sobered him from the haze of Jon’s attention
Jon’s eyes flickered up at Martin, frown still deeply set. “The news has hold of Gertrude’s case.”
“Oh. Right then.”
“Hm,” Jon turns off his screen, shoving his phone back into his pocket. He peered into his mug, chipped and faded with the logo of some company long out-of-business. The image of him, slight and weary, had Martin holding his breath waiting for his next words (this is not the first time he’d found himself breathless around Jon). Jon’s eyes flickered to Martin. “What are we waiting for, Martin? To see a ghost of a missing woman? Is that what we’re doing now?”
“Apparently so,” Martin shrugged, trying for confidence that fit like a too-small sweater, itchy and tight. “Do you believe us?”
“It doesn’t matter if I believe you. I’ll see for sure if you’re telling the truth or not come midnight,” Jon looked back down at his tea.
Martin fiddled with his own mug. “You’re allowed to be scared, Jon.”
“I’m not –“
“I am.”
Jon’s eyes snapped to his and Martin did not avert his gaze. Sometimes people needed to hear things, to feel things – Martin knew this. Jon was not letting himself feel something that he very much needed to feel. Eyebrows furrowing again, Jon sheepishly looked back into the depths of his tea.
“There are more things in heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’”
“What?”
“It- It’s from a play? Shakespeare?” Martin flushed, sensing his misplaced poetry shatter some sort of moment again.
“Right,” Jon peered at him, reserved but still looking. Martin met his gaze and smiled sheepishly, cheeks ruddy. Jon blinked, but the familiar look of annoyance was absent from his features. Small miracles and all that.
“Right.”
‘’
“A brick in the door? Really, Sash?” Tim juggled two bags of Thai and a drink carrier, rolling his eyes as Sasha threw open the door of the institute and peered about.
The hour had not yet hit seven, but the doors locked at six, and as such, Sasha again had stuck a brick in one of the doors to the side of the main entrance. Tim followed Sasha inside, grumbling after her to carry something more than the bag of snacks from Tesco.
“I figured people would still be around, but I didn’t want to bang on the doors with our arms full, you know?” Sasha looked back at him briefly, kicking the brick back into the foliage.
“You literally have one bag – you don’t get to say our arms full,” Tim snipped although there was little fire behind it. Sasha rolled her eyes and grabbed the drink carrier.
“Could’ve said that in a less passive-aggressive way, Stoker,” Sasha quipped.
“Could’ve noticed your dear friend suffering earlier, James.”
Sasha giggled, and continued to lead the way down to the archives. Tim, despite his pouting, couldn’t help but smile.
“Sasha?” echoed across the entryway as they approached the hall, making them pause. They turned to the sight of a dyed and punkish figure making her way over to them with a smile.
“Melanie King?” Sasha grinned, walking over to her with a matching smile. Tim, still weighed down with takeaway, followed after.
All dyed hair tips and ripped jeans, Melanie King was not what one may expect to see in the Magnus Institute. While the building was pillared, the employees (mostly) clean cut, and the aura elitist, Melanie… Well, Melanie seemed to fit the “YouTube Ghost Hunter” vibe quite a bit more. Watching Sasha – bespectacled, button-downs and sweaters Sasha – greet Melanie like a friend, Tim couldn’t help but smirk at the conflict of aesthetics before him.
“What are you doing here?” Sasha asked, grin still plastered across her face. Oh yeah, Tim would be teasing her about this later.
“I got okay-ed to use the library for research. Just got the email today, but I wanted to come in and introduce myself to the librarian and all the people I’ll need to schmooze to stay in good graces,” Melanie looked between the two of them. “What’s with the food?”
Tim grinned. “Archive party of sorts,” he winked. “Very exclusive.”
Melanie rolled her eyes. “Right, because you lot definitely seem like the partying sort.”
“I can party!” Sasha exclaimed at the same time Tim huffed out a defensive “Hey!”
“Oh please, as if Jon would let you guys do anything fun,” Melanie scoffed. Sasha made a considering expression at that.
“You’ve only met stressed-boss-man Jon,” Tim contested. “For all you know, Jon could be a party animal outside of work.”
Melanie laughed at that one. “I have sources who say otherwise.”
“Sources?” Tim cocked his head to the side. “What sources?”
“A mutual friend of sorts. His ex, my friend and sometimes co-creator,” Melanie seemed to size him up with this (which, at her height, was quite an accomplishment).
“Jon’s ex? Who?” Sasha’s eyes widened. As straight edged as she likes to present herself, Tim knew Sasha to be quite the gossip when the occasion presented itself.
“Georgie Barke –“
“Georgie Barker?” Sasha’s voice echoed in the empty entry way. “Like ‘What the Ghost’ Georgie Barker?”
“That Georgie Barker, yes,” Melanie seemed to be enjoying the gossip just as much as Sasha. “Apparently her and Jon went out in uni. I told her I came to make a statement and when she found out who I’d made a statement to she had a lot to say about your Jonathan Sims – and not a lot of it good. Apparently, the breakup was messy.”
“That was years ago, though,” Tim found himself saying. “Plenty of people have messy relationships in uni.”
“Not every relationship ends with a whole friend group siding with one party though, does it?” Melanie challenged.
Tim wasn’t sure what to say to that, but the urge to prove Melanie wrong sat high in his chest. What did she know, anyway? She didn’t know Jon. Jon with his god-awful jokes and vicious curiosity, his stilted compliments and empty threats, his sad eyes, nervous ticks, bewildered kindness.
There were nights, back in the research days, when Tim would invite Jon for drinks, and Jon would say yes. There were nights Tim and Jon would be the last ones at the table at the end of the night, where Jon would be explaining the alignment of the stars or the callouses on his grandmother’s hands and Tim would be staring for just a moment too long. Jon would look up from his rambling, catch his gaze, and stumble over his words. Tim would look away, worried about making him uncomfortable or – or looking too honest and Jon… and Jon would flush, smile in that shy way of his, and continue his story. They’d walk to the tube station together at close, and, as much as he wanted to, Tim never quite got the nerve to ask Jon back to his. Jon would always say goodnight with a knowing look, though.
Tim missed those nights.
Coming out of his thoughts, Tim became aware of Sasha telling Melanie some sort of warnings about the “sexist bastards” to avoid and the “elitist bull” of restricted sections of the library. Melanie seemed to be taking it all to memory, but Tim also couldn’t help but notice Melanie looking to the slowly waning light outside the institute’s doors.
“Hey Sash, we do have food still,” Tim jiggled the bags of takeout. “And I’m guessing Melanie has a bus to catch.”
Sasha blushed slightly as she seemed to notice both the cooling coffee in her hands and the dimming light of the sky. “Right, right, sorry, I just. I guess I got excited for a moment there,” she laughed nervously, looking from Tim to Melanie. “But really, if anyone gives you any trouble just let me know, alright? Some of these men here are downright pigs."
“I’ll definitely take you up on that if I need it,” Melanie assured her. Tim looked from her heavy Docs to her scarred hands and thinks she probably won’t need it. “And if Jon gives you trouble let me know. I’m sure I can get some sort of blackmail out of Georgie.”
The desire to defend bloomed in his chest again, but Tim just smiled good naturedly and wished her a goodnight, watching her lithe form slip out onto the streets of London. Tim turned to continue down to the archives, but the Tesco bag gently tapped into Tim’s side as Sasha touched his shoulder.
“Tim,” she said earnestly, looking at him through those huge glasses of hers. “Is there something you want to tell me about you and Jon?”
Tim actually laughed at that one. “Nothing to tell, Sash.”
“Right,” Sasha’s eyes trailed over his face, and seemingly finding nothing off, she nodded. “Right. Good.”
She continued down the hall to the stairway, and Tim trailed behind.
“So Melanie’s cute, isn’t sh-“
“Shut up, Tim.”
‘’
They wait.
The hour grows late, later, later still. Martin makes the third round of tea for the evening as it approaches eleven thirty while Sasha and Tim play Go Fish at the table. Jon sits in the corner on the raggedy armchair that had probably been there since before any of them were born, his laptop keys creating a steady rhythm as he responds to emails and types up reports and does whatever else it is that he sees fit to do at 11 at night. He put in his earphones sometime after nine and hadn’t so much as looked up from his screen since.
Martin idly wondered what he was listening to.
He lined up the four mugs on the counter, each chipped and flawed in their own ways, and placed a bag of black English tea into each. He added a splash of milk to Sasha’s, a bit more milk and some sugar to Tim’s and his own, and a little less milk but two times the sugar to Jon’s. The electric kettle boiled on, and Martin turned it off with a click, pouring the steaming water into the waiting cups. He stirred each gently, watching the liquid turn varying shades of brown. Five minutes to steep, then. He set about putting the milk in the fridge, the box of tea and the sugar in the cupboard. It was a soothing thing, to take care of others like this. This, he could do. If nothing else, he could always do this.
Jon’s laptop continued to go clack clack clack, Sasha laughed at something Tim said, and the light sound of some indie band continued to play from Sasha’s laptop on the table. And then, well – then the sound of typing suddenly stopped.
Sasha and Tim continued to babble and laugh, but Martin looked over at the man in the corner. Jon, his eyes trailing over the screen, eyebrows furrowed. One hand idly fiddled with the wire of his headphone, and Martin found himself watching that absentminded movement as though in a trance. The trance, however, was broken by Jon’s (striking, God they were strikingly green) eyes snapping to Martin.
Martin blushed, busying himself with the tea again – had it been five minutes? Probably, yes, sure. He brought two mugs over to Sasha and Tim, who accepted it with thanks and continued to torment each other via card game, and then approached Jon slowly. Jon, who was still watching him.
He held out the chipped, steaming mug. “You alright? Emails still keeping you busy?”
Jon’s eyes flickered back to the screen for a moment. “Uh, yes. Quite.” He took the offered tea from Martin, wrapping those thin fingers around the cup as he held it near his chest, eyes now again trailing over the screen.
“You sure? You seem, uhm, kind of stressed?” Martin fiddled with the hem of his sleeve.
He didn’t expect Jon to respond, not really, but Jon was full of surprises today, wasn’t he?
“Sometimes I just,” Jon pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed as though warding off a headache. “I would like to know just what Elias is thinking.”
“O-Oh?” Martin felt a Jon rant coming on and suddenly itched for his own tea, which was still sat on the counter on the other side of the room.
“He gives me this position, hands me a disaster of an archive, lets me pick a team regardless of their qualifications, and when I ask for a modicum of guidance, he gives me nothing more than a few meaningless pep-talks,” Jon halted, taking a deep breath. “Sometimes it feels like he’s two different people. One’s telling me to work harder, the other’s telling me to slow down. It’s impossible to tell what his goal is, here.”
“Bold of you to assume Elias has goals beyond getting that cash money,” Tim called from the table. Sasha laughed, but Jon just furrowed his eyebrows more. Martin looked between the two of them, wanting to joke back to Tim but also to soothe Jon but also to get his tea steadily cooling on the counter. Tim continued. “C’mon, Jon. Elias probably isn’t giving you any advice because he doesn’t have a clue what actually happens down here. He worked in the bloody filing department until he got his own promotion.”
“He has been the director of this institute for 15 years, Tim, I’d think he’d have something beyond meaningless platitudes for me,” Jon snipped back.
“And you’d also think that the cryptid bastard would have a bit more to say about Gertrude Robinson than ‘ah yes, we’ve replaced her, don’t worry,’” Tim’s voice lowered into a treacherous imitation of Elias’s voice. “If you’re looking for some sort of pat on the back or anything actually helpful, I think I’ve seen the head librarian give out more earnest compliments than Elias, and Diana is a total hard-ass.”
Martin couldn’t help but nod at that sentiment, shivering lightly at memories of Diana’s not-so-constructive criticism in his years working in the library. Jon, on the other hand, only frowned deeper and went back to clack clack clacking away at his laptop with an annoyed muttering under his breath. Tim, rolling his eyes, simply dealt a new hand of cards for him and Sasha.
Moment seemingly dropped, Martin made his way back to his tea which was now just a bit less than lukewarm. He turned to lean against the counter as he took his first sip, letting the warmth seep into his weary bones and closing his eyes to let his tension float away with the cold. When he opened his eyes, his gaze settled on the door to the breakroom – or rather, what sat beyond the door to the breakroom – or rather, who lurked in the hallway beyond the door to the breakroom.
Her eyes, there was something – he didn’t – it was just for a second that he looked in her eyes but -
If Martin’s yelp of fear didn’t get the other three’s attention, then the sound of his mug crashing to the floor certainly did.
Everyone was on their feet in an instant. Sasha was beside him, gripping his shoulder and asking in a rush “What? What’s happened?” Tim took one look at Martin before following his gaze to the eerie form of Gertrude Robinson across the hall. Martin tore his eyes away from the ghostly form, squeezing his eyes shut and digging his palms against them and –
“It’s really her.”
Martin opened his eyes to the sight of Jon, wide eyed and panicked, eyes locked on the figure. He took a few steps forward and stopped, eyes still trained on Gertrude, and Martin cast his gaze to the ghost and – and –
And Gertrude was staring back at Jon with a matching intensity.
“Jon, what the hell is happening?” Tim seemed to have the realization at the same moment. “Why’s she looking at you? She’s never looked at us, so why is she-?”
“What’s wrong with her eyes?” Jon interrupts, stepping closer to the woman.
“What-?” Sasha started.
“Her eyes. Why are her eyes like th-“
“You see it, too?” Martin breathed.
Jon laughed, a mirthless thing that seemed almost punched out of him. “Of course I see it. They’re – they’re –“
The figure of Gertrude Robinson raised a frail hand into the air, beckoning, eyes (eyes her eyes eyes eyes eyes) still locked on Jon’s.
“What the actual fuck?” Sasha gripped Martin’s sleeve tighter – even Tim, all laughs and bravery, stumbled back a step. Jon, though…
Gertrude began to move, much like she had previous nights, and Jon followed.
For a moment, the three assistants stood stock still, watching their boss slip out of the room with no hesitation, no fear. They looked at each other, took a collective breath, and hurried to follow.
The darkness of the hall gave way to the darkness of the stacks as they trailed a few feet behind the glowing phantom and the shivering shape of Jonathan Sims. Martin took the lead of their trio this time, eyes fixed not to Gertrude but to Jon – Jon, who seemed entranced by the ghost, who shook like a leaf, who noticed her eyes. It still felt like a trek through the underworld, Martin mused, but instead of counting time with the sound of their steps or the aisles passed, he counted the twitching of Jon’s fingers, the muttered concerns of Tim and Sasha, the head turns of the ghost as she looked back to make sure Jon was still following.
They approached the aisle with the trapdoor, just as they had the night previous, and the three assistants paused near the beginning of the aisle. Gertrude stood about where the trapdoor sat locked beneath the shoddy rug, looking expectantly to Jon who approached uneasily.
Martin watched as Gertrude leant down and Jon did the same. The ghost’s hands pointed, Jon pushed the rug aside, and Gertrude, as she had before, fiddled with the lock. Unlike the night before, though, there was a click.
“What?” Sasha muttered under her breath, voicing what the other two were thinking.
Gertrude spread her hands towards the trapdoor, and Jon looked at her dubiously, but gently pulled on the handle. It opened. Martin froze. How could it be open? Gertrude made her way down first, quickly and silently as before.
Jon didn’t even look back, poising himself to follow.
“Jon! No!” Martin’s voice echoed in the stillness of the hallway, panic coloring his tone, but Jon didn’t so much as flinch. He disappeared down, the door silently swinging shut behind him.
There was a fumbling of fabric again, the hardened form of Tim shoving his way past the other two and his phone’s torch casting harsh light over the stacks as he rushed towards the trapdoor. Sasha and Martin were quick to follow, but they all knew with a sinking feeling what they would find.
Tim pulled on the handle, shook the lock, hammered a frustrated fist against the wood.
“Locked,” he announced, looking on the verge of a panic. “How can it be locked? We just watched him go down there, how is it locked?”
“Tim, c’mon, we’ll find a key,” Sasha laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, but Martin didn’t miss the shining quality of his eyes.
“I just watched. Again, I just watched,” Tim slammed a fist against the trapdoor again.
Sasha and Martin exchanged a look.
“Let’s go find a key, shall we?”
''
Jonathan Sims did not know where he was.
There was a woman trailing ahead of him – a glowing figure with eyes that did not make sense. There were cement walls, cement floors, and the pressing darkness of tunnels. There was the sound of his footsteps. There were the echoes, almost eerie, almost like another pair of steps.
She did not speak – Gertrude, that is. She looked back at him every so often to make sure he was still there, but no words passed the lips of the glowing figure. Jon did not know if he preferred she speak or not. Jon did not know anything, not about this.
He did not know how long he was down there. He did not know if time moved in the same steady line as it did in the world above. He did not know why his mind made people out of the shadows lurking in corners, why his thoughts turned to a spider from his childhood, why his heart did not beat with the panic he expected. He did not know.
Gertrude stopped.
An archway in a cement wall, a glowing figure hovering in the frame: this is the image that would stick in Jon’s head from this evening. A ghost on the border of the tunnels full of questions and the room full of answers Jon wished he could forget. She did not look back at him before disappearing inside. Jon didn’t know why she didn’t look back. She always looked back.
Jon stepped into the room, and the ghost was gone. The room, square and small, however, was not empty.
A chair, cardboard boxes, and a flickering electric lantern left on. (Did the ghost turn it on? Jon didn’t know.) Cassettes – everywhere, cassettes, littering the tops of boxes and the floor and in piles in the corners and – and a singular tape player sat on the chair. Jon’s eyes trailed over the mess, the tapes and the cardboard and the cement walls and floors and – and –
Blood.
Old and dry, more brown than red now, but it was definitely blood. It covered the chair (oozing, Jon could picture blood oozing from a wounded figure sat in that cha-) and splattered behind the chair (impact, bullets, spraying from the exit wound, was that, was that it, is this-).
Jon stared, heart both frozen in his chest and hammering away and his face felt numb, his whole body felt numb because this wasn’t – couldn’t be real but – blood, there was so much blood, whose blood was –
Click.
Sloshing liquid. A door swinging open on rusted hinges.
“Gertrude.”
That was Elias’s voice coming from the tape player. The tape player that Jon had not turned on and yet was playing – the tape player on the chair covered in blood whose blood whose blood –
“Damn.”
“Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”
Gertrude. That had to be Gertrude’s voice. Jon had only briefly seen the woman when she was Head Archivist, only heard her voice in clipped tones as she passed him in the halls of the institute, but he knew it had to be her voice he heard speaking with Elias.
“You were the one so…insistent on staying human.” Elias’s voice crooned from the tape, breaking Jon from his thoughts.
"And no doubt that makes my death a lot less complicated.”
What? Jon did not know what this conversation was about. Jon did not know, but he stood before that bloody chair (blood whose blood oh god whose blood) and he listened.
“How long have you known?”
“About your body? Not long after you took your new host and we had our little… chat. It wasn’t exactly a huge leap to the Panopticon after that.”
None of this made sense. It didn’t make any sense. Jon did not know did not know and there was blood whose blood he had a sinking feeling in his gut whose blood blood blood –
A scraping sound on the tape.
“Just needs a little spark, and –“
Click. Was that a gun? That couldn’t be a gun – Jon shook, eyes trained on the blood and the tape player and –
“I see. So you’re finally getting your hands dirty? I must really have caught you off guard.”
“I suppose we both got a little complacent. Fifty years is a long time. End of an era.”
Jon shook. He did not want to hear this – to know this – but he did not know what he did not know and –
“I’m not really in the mood for nostalgia, Elias. You might have noticed I’m rather busy so either shoot me or –“
Bang. A gasp.
“ Well… there it is. Thought it would hurt more.”
“…Pity.”
Click.
The tape shut off. Jon stared at the blood. Gertrude’s blood. Fuck, Gertrude Robinson’s blood. Bile rose in his throat.
Elias killed Gertrude in this very room. Elias – but what was all that about bodies? And Elias is only fifty or some odd years himself, how could – why is fifty years the end of an era? Why did he kill her? He killed her, Elias –
Jon turned and emptied the contents of his stomach against the wall, shock and confusion and the exertion of being sick making him brace against the biting cold cement or risk falling. He did not understand.
He briefly looked back at the chair, the blood (blood blood blood Gertrude’s blood holy shit holy shi), the tape.
None of this made sense.
‘’
They waited, and waited, and waited. Martin was a little sick of waiting.
“Martin.”
“Sasha.”
“Martin.”
“What?”
“Please tell me you did not pick the lock of Elias’s office to get that.”
Martin blinked, still holding up the newly procured key. “I mean I could tell you that, if you wanted?”
Tim laughed at that – a welcomed sound when not ten minutes ago he’d still been panicking in the corner of their shared office.
It had been almost an hour, and there was still no sign of Jon. Tim seemed acutely afraid in a way Martin had not seen before, although Sasha seemed to understand on some level Martin had no context for. Sasha and Tim had been trying to come up with some sort of brutal bust-in plan to save Jon from an evil ghost in the tunnels, but Martin figured if there were a key to their locked tunnel door, the Head of the Institute’s office would be a good place to start searching. Having scampered off a good twenty minutes previous, he’d returned with the key in hand and a smugness in having obtained it.
Sasha sighed. “Oh, alright,” she stood from her desk. “C’mon, then, let’s go get our boy,”
This was how the trio of assistants found themselves back in the stacks, Sasha leading with a torch, Tim clutching her sleeve in one hand and Martin’s sleeve in his other, and Martin taking up the rear, key clutched tight in his palm. It seemed less hellish like this, headed towards something hopeful rather than following an unknown. Martin did not pause to consider that it was still an unknown – that they didn’t really know what they were headed towards – if Jon was okay.
They approached the aisle with the trapdoor and the now rumpled, overturned rug. The lock sat soundly in place. Martin dug the key deeper into the flesh of his palm.
Sasha hesitated as they came closer, and for a moment Martin almost did not realize the sound coming from the door. Echoing footsteps, sounds of far off words, possibly wind came muffled through the wood of the door. Martin carefully leant down next to the door, Sasha shining a light for him. He exchanged glances with Tim and then Sasha and brought the key to the lock, giving a slow twist and hearing the click of it unlocking. Taking a deep breath, he removed the padlock from the door and gave a gentle tug to the handle.
He did not expect something to be pushing up at the same time he pulled.
Martin yelped for the second time of the night, shoving himself back from the door and scrambling until his back hit one of the shelves. Tim and Sasha both skittered away a good few feet as well, and the three of them stared at the thin figure poking his head out of the trapdoor. Through the haze of panic, Martin’s mind began to put together the familiar features of a particular archivist.
“Jon?!” Sasha processed faster than the others, throwing herself towards the trapdoor and fussing over the man attempting to pull himself out. “Are you okay? What happened? You look like shit, what-“
Jon climbed the rest of the way out of the hole, accepting aid from a still babbling Sasha. He held something in his hand, for a moment, but as Sasha fussed Martin watched the object disappear into his jacket pocket, hidden from sight with no attention called to it. When Martin looked up at Jon’s face, he was looking back at him, eyes wary but also warning. Martin nodded subtly, instead just watching as Jon was almost knocked over by the force of Tim gripping his shoulders and checking him over for signs of hurt.
Something happened. Martin’s stomach sank. Holy shit, something happened, hadn’t it?
Jon locked eyes with him again, brief, just a flash of a glance, but in that one look, Martin knew he was right.
Next would come tea in the breakroom, watching the clock turn three, listening intently as Jon told the tale. Half-truths, all of it, Martin knew. The story boiled down succinctly into “I followed her, she disappeared, and I stumbled my way back to the entrance to the archives.” But the way he trembled as he spoke, the way his hand had not left his pocket, the way he kept looking to the doorway as though expecting to see a ghost, Martin knew there was more than he was telling.
It neared four by time the group made to leave for home, Jon (less begrudgingly than expected) telling them he did not expect to see them the following morning until after eleven at earliest.
Martin clutched his car keys in his fingers as he watched the archival team pick up and prepare to go home, Tim throwing his car keys to Sasha with an exasperated “You get me as far as your house and I’ll be fine” and Jon shrugging his bag over his shoulder.
“Jon,” Martin watched Jon jump at the sound of his name. “C’mon, you aren’t going on the tube like that. Let me give you a ride.”
Martin ignored the eyebrow raise Sasha gave him as her and Tim made their way upstairs. Jon sputtered for a moment.
“That’s not necessary, Martin, th-thank you, thou-“
“Please, Jon, just let me do this,” Martin’s tone edged into something a little too honest, and he snapped his mouth shut. Slowly, though, Jon nodded.
Martin did not fail to notice Jon slide the trapdoor key into his pocket before they left.
‘’
The car ride was silent save for a few “Left here”s or “Right at the signal”s. Martin did not push, and Jon did not speak, and so the white noise of a sleeping London filled the car.
Martin pulled up to Jon’s building at nearly half past four. He expected Jon to leave the car with the same silence as before, hand still shoved into his pocket, eyes still wild and wary, but as Martin put the car into park Jon did not move.
For a moment, they sat in silence, both men looking out the windshield of Martin’s little commuter car, neither commenting on the night’s events or the arrival at Jon’s flat. Then, Jon took a steady, quiet breath.
“Can you keep a secret, Martin?” Jon’s voice was barely a whisper, but it sounded too loud in the quiet of the idling car. Martin looked to him, eyes trailing over the profile of Jon’s face, tracing the sharp cheekbones and watery gaze still fixed on some nonexistent point in front of the car.
“Of course.”
Jon turned to Martin, eyes meeting his. He did not flinch away from the gaze.
“Gertrude is dead.”
“We saw her ghost, Jon,” Martin nodded, ignoring the twinge of horror at the confidence in Jon’s statement. “What do you have in your pocket?”
Slowly, Jon withdrew his hand from his jacket pocket to reveal a slim, black cassette tape. It was not labeled, but it looked just like every other tape found in the Magnus Institute. “She led me to this. It was playing when I walked in.”
“Walked in where, Jon?” Martin shifted in his seat so he could face Jon properly, fingers itching to reach out and comfort, to wipe the tears gathering in his eyes. “What happened? What was on the tape?”
A quiet, desperate sob bubbled from Jon’s lips, his entire body trembling.
“Something is very, very wrong about the institute, Martin,” Jon took a breath. “And I don’t know what to do.”
Martin reached out, gently taking hold of the hand Jon did not have wrapped around the tape. Jon’s thin fingers clutched Martin’s rounder ones like a vice. Tears fell from his eyes (his eyes, oh his eyes).
He took a shaking breath. “I don’t know what to do.”