Work Text:
The click of the tape being placed in the cassette player was unusually loud in the dusty quiet of the archives, almost echoing in the musty air.
A shaky breath, be it from nerves or anticipation, followed it, and the hand that placed the tape in the deck only hesitated a moment before pressing the play button. Dust motes floated about, illuminated by the old panels of overhead lights and the lone window well at the corner of the room, weak evening sun filtering through in one last gasp of a ray.
For a moment, all that came from the worn little speakers was the whir of the deck, and then, a smooth voice, muted by the archaic recorder’s cassette, began to speak.
———
Case #0021507
Statement of William Desmukes, regarding an encounter in the Scottish Highlands. Original statement given July 15th, 2002. Audio recording by Wilbur Soot, Head Archivist of the Alastair Institute, London.
Statement begins.
———
You’ll have to forgive me for not being able to write this statement myself, but, well, you seem to know what you’re doing, and my hands are still in no shape to be writing.
Going into this, I want to make one thing abundantly clear; I am a very experienced hiker. I was outdoorsy as a kid, and my parents fed into that, indulging me with camping trips and survival classes and monthly passes to a local rock wall at the uni gym. I think they expected me to grow out of it or get bored eventually, but I never did. My parents, they weren’t too happy about that, I think- outdoor gear, gas money, and monthly or yearly passes to local reserves … it adds up fast. They always humored me, though, and encouraged my passion until I was old enough and experienced enough to start going out on my own or with my mates.
Scrambles, hikes, walks, camping, rock and mountain climbing, I’ve done just about everything I’ve had the funds and time to indulge in. I’m responsible- I use the appropriate gear, I do my research, and I never go on solo trips without letting someone know my plans. All of this is to say, I would not get lost. Whatever the paramedics, police or rescue teams may say or think or assume, I did not get lost.
I wish I did.
Getting disoriented, taking a tumble and hitting my head, that would be much preferred to the reality of it all. Not that reality really feels like a, a fitting description, or anything, but it’s the only word I have for it. To think, that trip was something I had been looking forward to, and it led to all this. To me giving a statement to you people- no offense, I mean, it’s just … whatever. I ought to get to the point.
It was June, when I made it out to the Scottish Highlands. I’d been planning the trip all spring, making sure I had time off of work and everything I needed to make it to Scotland. It was the biggest trip I had in store for the summer, and I intended to do it all- camping, hiking, you name it. The crown jewel of my visit was Ben Nevis, though. It’s the tallest mountain in Scotland, with an elevation of 1,345 meters, and the route I intended to take is famously difficult. I was relishing the idea of a challenge, to say the least. I had saved it for last, going for easier sightseeing and walks in the days leading up to it.
I won’t bog you all down with the details and jargon- just keep in mind that I was well equipped and well read. I arrived at the trailhead early on the 12th, and what stood out to me immediately was how clear it was. There were hardly any other hikers out, and the clouds that did dot the sky seemed to offer no threat of rain, even with the brisk wind that pushed them through the sky.
For the most part, the walk was unremarkable. The Ben Nevis scramble route has eight “stages” to it, starting off easy and progressively getting more difficult and dangerous as you climb the mountain and the terrain changes. The change is gradual enough, but between the open walking paths of the first stages and the narrow, craggy climbs of the later ones, there’s a significant difference, and I was more occupied with navigation than soaking in my surroundings by the time I got to the later stages. The ridge walk is precarious, to say the least, and as you get higher ropes and harnesses are a must.
As I reached the summit of the route, focused on making it from boulder to boulder to avoid the rocky drops that fell away on either side of me rather than on the broad horizon, I saw … him. The route hadn’t exactly been empty, I’d seen a few hikers and climbers in the distance ahead of me, but I’d left early enough to avoid the busiest of it all. It had been a good while since the last time flashy outdoor wear had caught my eye and interrupted the jagged path and serene views, and I’m sure the reason I hadn’t seen him immediately was because of his outfit.
The man, he was wearing worn outdoor gear, muted greens and blacks and browns, mostly, and even with the strange broad-brimmed hat on his head, I could still see his shaggy straw-blond hair. The garb was nothing like the garish raincoats you usually see on hikers, and I remember thinking at first that he looked overdressed- I couldn’t see all the layers, but he seemed pretty bundled up, and a fur lined hood is pretty excessive on cooler day, let alone in the early summer, with the sun bearing down on us between the scarce clouds. It wasn’t until I drew closer that I noticed how much he was missing, gear wise; the hat on his head hardly counted for a helmet, and I saw no harnesses, no rope, no jingling carabiners.
He just stood there, perched on the angular, uneven rocks and staring off into the distance. I didn’t really know what to make of it, and I hadn’t seen him on the trail ahead of me earlier, so he must have been standing up there for hours upon hours. I’m not sure why I thought that. Maybe it was just how still he was, standing as if he and the geography were old friends. No, not friends, it was more like … they had the same gaze. His eyes and the mountain were fixed on the same faraway blue.
It was all pretty weird, but nothing too extraordinary. He could have just been some overconfident survivalist, or even a drifter, for all I knew, but I figured I ought to check on him, just in case he needed help, or was having an episode.
I was out of breath by the time I got close enough to speak to him, having heaved myself up to a standing position next to him. Up close, he looked even more weather worn than from a distance, his clothes faded and hair windblown. The lines on his face were hard, and I couldn’t have told you how old he was if I tried. His eyes didn’t move from whatever point on the horizon they were fixated on. Before I could heave enough air into my lungs to ask him if he was alright, he spoke.
“Incredible view, eh, mate?” His accent was thick, and British, but not very formal, and caught off guard, I just turned to follow his gaze.
For all the hours I had spent on the mountain that day, I never really took the view in until that moment.
The craggy hills and mountains went on forever, grays and greens that faded into the distance until there was barely a difference between sky and ground, just a blurry blue. That blue just seemed to get brighter and brighter, as the earth below us bent and curved away, as if I was looking through a warped lens.
A growing panic was building in my chest, and the air that was already scarce in my lungs felt like it was gone entirely. Despite it all, I couldn’t tear my eyes off that distant, terrible, beautiful blue. The ground seemed to be dropping further and further away, and I could feel the stone beneath my feet, but as I stared, frozen, it was becoming more and more difficult to focus on the gray and green that was slipping from my field of view.
I don’t know how long we stood there, my breathing shallow and quick, but never so fast that I would slip out of consciousness. It was maybe minutes, or hours, or moments later when I registered that the only presence I could feel was the man beside me. My field of vision felt stretched, strained, and my eyes and head ached from the constant assault of that awful blue that only seemed to stretch wider, and though I couldn’t move my head to check, I knew that there was nothing underneath my feet beyond that same, blinding blue. The clouds in the sky could be miles away or right next to us and I couldn’t have told the difference.
I should have moved, or screamed, or fallen, or passed out, but all I could do was stare and breathe, quiet and ragged. When he placed a hand on my shoulder, I nearly jumped out of my skin, and that distraction allowed the barest of movement, my head turning what could only have been a fraction of an inch, and my eyes rolling to catch a glimpse of him, anything, anything besides the endless, repeating expanse of cloud dappled blue. I could see him, just barely, and he smiled at me so warmly. Like I had given him the best gift he had ever received.
His hand was still on my shoulder, and my whole body was trembling. My skin felt taut, every part of me strained, and for one desperate moment I realized that firm hand was all that was holding me up in the never-ending sky.
He let go.
A scream does not do justice to the sound that tore through my throat as I began to plummet, raw and sharp and agonizing.
The last thing I saw was that- that man, smiling and waving as I fell, and for the briefest moment the faded silhouettes of wings stretched behind him and across the sky impossibly, pulling at the corners of my view and pushing it further.
I screamed for as long as I could, until the only sounds that came out were rattling and empty. And still, I fell.
I don’t remember when I stopped falling, or when they found me. I’m surprised there was anything left to find. If anything, I should be a smear of flesh on the mountainside, but, here I am.
According to the doctors and the therapists and SAR officials, I got confused after a fall and ended up lost. You have to understand, I was never lost, I would never get lost. I don’t know what it was that happened, or how I’m alive, but what happened on that mountain top … as much as I try to tell myself it wasn’t real, I know it was.
Statement ends.
———
Click.
The final click of the recording startled its listener out of their rapt focus. Scrambling to return the tape to its file, he collected the loose papers from the case file in one hand and fidgeted with the tape player with the other.
The desk was a mess, and he shuddered a bit to think that it probably hadn’t been touched since his predecessor sat behind it. It felt almost criminal to disturb it, as if doing so would be akin to defiling a grave or spitting at someone’s feet.
“Dear God,” he muttered as he sifted through the leaves of paper. “I should probably record all these supplemental notes, right? What did Eret say- that this file would be a good introduction to the basics of the job? Yeah, right.”
He could just hear the admonishments now- Karl, you just have to hold this spot long enough for me to find a proper replacement. Surely a little file organizing isn’t beyond your capabilities, hm? Karl rolled his eyes a bit, but he had to admit that he was curious. This was a pretty big upgrade from his previous assignment in the library, anyways, and even if it was temporary the bonus to his pay was much appreciated. Maybe, if he proved himself, Eret would decide he wouldn’t need to look for another head archivist, too!
He was getting ahead of himself, though. All he needed to do now was record Wilbur’s old notes, and add some of the extra research he and his new assistants had managed to find.
Pressing the red record button, he cleared his throat and began.
———
Ahem, hem, ah, supplemental for case #0021507 by Karl Jacobs, library sta- I mean, Interem Archivist for the Alastair Institute, London.
The previous archivist’s notes on this case are … difficult to understand. They’re not by any means messy, the parts that aren’t completely blacked out, just vague, and weirdly emotive.
“He was toyed with like the rest. Just another wretched sap in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
There’s a lot of crossed out lines, and then-
“Will have to write another letter. Maybe that will get the point across.”
A few more lines are blanked out after that, and the rest is just missing persons files and police reports regarding Mr. Desmukes disappearance and rescue.
I had Jack cross reference them, and they’re still accurate, or as accurate public records can make accounts of the supernatural. Desmukes was reported missing by his friend Andrew Beck, who was his contact and reference for the ill-fated Ben Nevis visit. Authorities were alerted immediately, and searches on ground and via helicopter were made for almost a week. They found him, on the fifth day of searching.
According to first responders, he was standing in a gulley facing the cliff wall and held still. His supposed climbing gear that he had gone to the mountain with was nowhere near his person, and searchers did not find it in the day leading up to his rescue or following it. He lacked the injuries that would have indicated a serious fall, his body only covered with the superficial cuts and bruises standard to climbing expeditions. What was out of place was his hands, which were covered in open wounds, apparently rubbed raw on the rock face in front of him.
It’s regarded as a miracle that he survived, and paramedics said that he showed no signs of any more than a day of exposure, contrary to the reports of how long he had been missing.
Another peculiar note that Jack pointed out was that early summer is the busy season on Ben Nevis, and by all means, the route he took should have been pretty crowded, even early in the day. It could have been a fluke, but somehow, I doubt that.
Niki attempted to contact Mr. Desmukes for a follow-up, but even her gentle coaxing couldn’t get him to agree to it, and he seemed pretty hostile according to her report. I hope looking for follow-up isn’t always so tricky, because I’d feel awful if my fr- if my colleagues ended up in danger for a silly old statement. It’ll probably be fine though, just the new-job jitters, hah.
Wilbur was a smart guy, from what I’ve heard, but maybe that lends credence to the “messy genius” trope, because the archives are an absolute wreck. I thought the library was a maze, but down here it’s like a whole-ass level of paperwork hell.
Was that everything? Ah, shoot, I mean, hum hum professionalism hum, stay tuned for the next thrilling tale of spooky shit making people miserable.
Goodbye? Do I need to say goodbye to a tape-
Click.