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Bad timing. Always, always, always bad timing. Why is it that no matter how hard he tries, no matter the effort, the money, the time put into getting away, he always gets dragged back in? No matter how often he suppresses the things he sees, the things he experiences, the things he learns and adapts to--he always gets dragged back into this putrid, nauseating cesspool teeming with anxiety and paranoia.
No matter how far he runs, how often he starts over, it still finds him. Those books find him, these cases find him, those things chase after him with their teeth bared and tongues oozing, dripping with malcontent and bloodlust; they froth at the mouth, clawing over each other, scratching and distorting themselves at the chance to be the one that finally ends him.
How unfortunate , he thinks to himself. His thumb flicks across the edge of his pause button as if he could ever even bring himself to disconnect from the stream of consciousness the mere act of recording brings him. Unrestricted access to the thoughts and feelings of those around him do nothing to satisfy his hunger, nothing to placate the ever-growing, gnawing pit in his stomach. Current events are too trifling for him, too boring--even for the old him.
Idle café chatter does nothing to satisfy the demands of the entity that claims him.
He slowly raises himself from his table, dropping his trash off at the bin on his way out. There’s a yearning in his gut, tugging him, dragging his psyche along to focus on the person outside. A young person sits, quietly sipping their drink while staring at the trees in the distance and Jon focuses on the way this person’s fingers dig into the styrofoam, squeezing just a bit too hard. He draws closer, mouth salivating just a bit too much for this to purely be an offering to his entity. He focuses on the way that their breath comes just a bit too forced, their pupils just a bit too dilated, their jaw just a bit too clenched. He breathes though his mouth in an attempt to remain calm, nostrils twitching with the acrid scent of muddy earth emanating from their skin.
The person finally look up at Jon, eyebrows furrowed and mouth parted. He settles across from them easily, glancing over at the trees the other was staring at just moments before.
“Uncomfortable, isn’t it?”
They refuse to look away from Jon, both hands clutching onto the drink they’re nursing. “...Excuse me?”
A beat passes, and Jon makes an effort to maintain normalcy, watching on as the anxiety wells up inside the stranger. “Oh, I know it’s uncomfortable.” He pauses a moment, “You just want to forget about it, don’t you?”
“I…? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, yes you do.” He brings his straw up to his lips, giving the coffee a small sip. “Anyone could’ve been able to tell that you were uncomfortable before I even sat here.” Jon finally glances back at them, and he suppresses his internal giddiness at the prospect of their story. “... How did it start?”
“Sir,” they start, coffee forgotten, beginning to back away from the table, “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.” Their chair leg catches on the stone, shoulders jolting at the motion. “I don’t even know you, maybe you have me mistaken? There’s a lot of people down here, I’m not even originally from this area-”
“I know. You’re from Surrey, but that’s still really close. Come on, Robin. Are you going to make this harder on yourself?” His expression remains neutral, eyes firmly locked onto the other. He allows a small smile, a bit more sardonic than he would have liked.
They freeze. Though their heart continues to pump, their breathing stops, body completely still.
“Really,” Jon begins, sighing a bit as he continues, “you’re going to make me do it?” Robin’s eyes, dull, pupils a pin prick while they scan over Jon’s face, searching for some sort of answer to his behavior. He pulls his recorder out of his pocket and sets it on the table.
Their mouth goes dry, deep-seated regret clear on their face. The recorder is only the start. They know this somehow, and the thought makes them sick. They cast one last hopeful look around, face promptly falling when they notice the lack of passers-by. “I--I really don’t-” Their voice catches in their throat, eyebrows furrowing and eyes closing.
“Tell me what happened three weeks ago in Coulsdon.”
Jon turns the recorder towards them and they exhale forcefully, sitting up straight with their jagged and shaky inhale. Robin opens their eyes and stares listlessly at the recorder, ignoring the first tears to drop, shoulders sagging soon after.
Jon continues. “Statement of Robin Gladwell, regarding their recent camping trip with their sister. Recording by the Archivist.” He turns the recorder towards them, guiding his straw to his mouth once again. “Statement begins.”
They take a deep breath.
“So what do I do, I just--I tell you what happened? Into that thing?”
Jon nods. Once.
They close their eyes again.
“Fine, fine. Okay. I don’t, I don’t know how you even knew in the first place, but here goes. I’m. Ah, I’m Robin Gladwell, you already know that. I already gave my statement to the police, but you’re like, what, an archivist for some sort of institute? Yeah, yeah that’s probably right. Of course you are.
“Okay. My sister and I, yeah? We’re the youngest, the babies. Less than a year apart and all, so we went to school at the same time before they changed the requirements for primary. I swear, Skye was always the outgoing one--protecting me from bullies and idiots like she was keeping some sort of tally.” Robin snorted, letting their eyes flutter open. They stare at the recorder, picking gently at the styrofoam in their hands. “I kind of wish I didn’t hate it as much as I did.”
Jon clears his throat and they jump, quickly silencing themself. He taps on his straw a couple of times and speaks firmly, “Full names. Did your sister have the same last name as you?”
They nod, but then realize the recorder can’t quite hear a head shake. “Yes. Her full name is Skye Gladwell. Our brothers are Tyler and Marcus Gladwell. But they aren’t really important to the story, I don’t… know why I’m telling you about them.” A few moments pass. “Anyway, she was the one who initiated things. We were going to different unis, not seeing nearly as much of each other as we could have been. She spent all her time working on her degree and maintaining her social life, while I balanced a full-time job with part-time school--she could never understand the stress of not having a full ride. Our parents have money, but they refused to help us ‘pave the way’ through our early adulthood. They said that they didn’t want to give us any handouts, but I know for a fact they put money on a card for her food.”
Robin sucks in a deep breath and steadies themself, taking a sip of their drink.
“Earlier this year, she threw this party for her and her friends. I told her that I was planning on dropping out of college next semester, and she blew things way out of proportion. Even threatened to let our parents know, but I already heard their speeches weeks beforehand. They blamed it on my girlfriend, and I blamed it on their shitty parenting. Life goes on.
“I stopped talking to her for a bit after that. I dropped out of classes early and got my money back for the semester, put it towards a deposit for a new flat closer to Steph-St-She’s. Right.” A deep breath. “Stephanie Bradshaw.”
They take another sip, rubbing their hand over their mouth for a moment. “Please. Please don’t tell her about this, I don’t know what I’d do if she found out.” All Jon does is nod his head, gesturing for her to continue.
“Right. Okay. So, a couple months ago, she invited me to go camping. We hadn’t been in years, mostly because of our busy schedules, and at this point I actually really missed her. I agreed. Things were normal, we lived our lives, and the weekend came up pretty quickly.
“We had one of those tents that had those like… connecting rooms? It’s one main room and then the zipper doors connecting the adjacent rooms. She took her boyfriend, I took my girlfriend. We didn’t want four people crammed to a single tent, and we both wanted our privacy.
“The weekend was… normal. I didn’t notice anything off. We spent less time together than I expected, but we had both brought our partners. At the time, I thought it was just me overreacting, but I should’ve guessed something was up.
“Her boyfriend left Sunday night. Or, well, we thought he did. She said that he had a stomach bug from the fish we had and went home early. His car was gone, so I believed her. I should have been able to tell that she was lying.” She shakes her head. swallowing thickly between her words. “Now that I think about it, her voice even shook when she told me. And her nails were painted when she had just complained to me about wishing she brought a top coat with her because the varnish was chipping.
“We got the news a couple weeks later that her boyfriend was missing. I tried to visit her , y’know, because I was worried, but she didn’t want to see me. Said she was looking for him with some of her friends, that she didn’t trust the police to do a good enough job tracking him.
“And I, I guess that should have been the first warning? ‘Tracking him.’ Not finding him. God, I’m such an idiot.” Robin holds their head in their hands and works through the ball in their throat.
“They found his body a couple miles away from our campsite. Still on the reserve, but a decent bit away. Steph and I were her alibis before we even knew how he was found and we vouched for her right away.
“His body. It was… He was choked. Strangled. That bone in his neck or clavicle was broken, or maybe it’s cartilage, I don’t know. Almost always broken in strangulation. He had scratches all over his body, too. Some looked like nail scratches, but most of it was from-from thorns. That’s what the police said, at least. Still had some in his neck when he was found.
“Skye became almost completely closed off after that. She was never where she was supposed to be, and her professors even wrote to administration trying to get her dropped from her courses. Maybe it’s good they didn’t drop her. It kept eyes on her. Who knows how many… how many more…
“She started talking to me again about three months ago. Two months ago she invited me camping. She showed me some trails she said she found while taking in the scenery. I chalked it up to her, you know, mourning her dead boyfriend. I didn’t know.
“I know you’re looking for more, but it was normal. Nothing happened, we spent time together, she made sure I knew the trails nearby and how to escape while it was light out, and it was great. It was honestly the closest I’d felt to her in a while, and I was just. I was so excited that she seemed to be smiling again. So excited to see her smiling again.
“When she invited me camping a few weeks ago, it’s no surprise that I said yeah. Of course I would. Steph and I just moved in together and we could finally relax with our hours from work. I had vacation time burning a hole in my pocket and jumped at the chance for a bit more peace and relaxation.
“I should have known something was off when she started making tea before bed. My family’s been sensitive to caffeine for as long as I can remember, and she was making some Blue Lady. She gave me some, but I barely drank it. Figured it was just because of the meal we ate, and that she didn’t want me falling asleep while we were still chatting.
“She invited me to the trail we were on earlier. The smile she had on her face, the excitement in her eyes… I couldn’t say no. I really, really couldn’t. Things would have been so much better if I didn’t. But I did. I looked at my tea, and even though it was cold, I drank what I could stomach.
“We walked for a while on the path, and every time there was a lull in the conversation, I couldn’t shake this feeling off. It’s like… It’s like. Hm. You know when you’re in the hallway at night, and you’re next to the last light switch between you and your room? It’s that feeling that something is waiting for you, and you know you’ll have to run as soon as you shut it off to get to your room. Like something was watching, stalking, and waiting. Just watching the moments tick until you finally let your guard down enough to turn it off, and then it runs after you full force. That moment of dread, of fear? That you get right as your finger hovers right over the switch? That’s how it started to feel.
“Eventually, we ran out of things to talk about and she hugged me. Grateful for the comfort in the stressful situation, I held on fast. Pressed my nose right up against her shoulder and squoze. She laughed a little, something I could never tire of hearing, and kissed my temple.
“I didn’t even know anything had changed in her but when I tried to pull away, she refused to let go. It was… kinda unnerving, but I laughed. I tried to tug my arms away. Her grip tightened until it almost hurt. She gave my temple another kiss and grinned at me. Then, without blinking or adjusting, or anything, she just began to count down.
“It was incredibly disturbing and I broke away when she started, but she just continued to grin at me. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she was drooling. No, not drooling. Frothing?
“I told her to stop, but she just continued until she broke 10. When she saw I wasn’t moving at 9, she paused her count and leaned forward. She. She gave my shoulder a nudge and giggled. And. And she told me to run.
“I just stared at her, but she continued to count. When she got to 5, something in her stance changed. Something in her eyes glinted and I wouldn’t be able to tell you what made me change so quickly from calm to the verge of a panic attack, but it happened. I ran. I ran as fast as I could, as long as I could, and as erratic as I could. I knew that she knew the trail, I knew that she knew she showed me the trail. Was this what she was preparing me for?
“I felt like I was going to throw up. I ran off the trail and into the trees. Branches scratched at my arms, digging just deep enough to sting, roots of trees seemed to reach up and grab at my ankle, as if they were on her side, sending me flying whenever I felt like I could hear her laughter drawing closer.
“I wouldn’t be able to tell you how long I ran for. I can’t even remember most of it, it’s just a blur. All I know is that she caught up to me. And when she did, oh man. She did not seem happy. She even seemed to be angry at me? For needing to stop. For needing to catch my breath, for needing to find a place to maybe climb and get away from her instead of running.
“She tack. She tackled me and bit my arm. It hurt, it hurt a lot but the only thing I could think to do was rip it away. Fuck, a chunk came off but she didn’t have that leverage over me anymore. I rolled us over, trying to get on top, trying to run away, but she rolled on top of me . And then I rolled us over.
“It… continued like that for a bit until we couldn’t quite control the roll any more. We were spiraling down the hill, gripping onto each other, our hands yanking on each other’s hair as we were each convinced that we had to be the one who survived. Her hands wrapped around my throat as we spun and I could barely see, could barely breathe, couldn’t breathe. I tasted blood in my mouth and saw black and white dots swarming my vision--all-encompassing and almost like a greeting. Like being guided into a dream.
“Somewhere along the way, she hit her head, and her grip relaxed. I gasped for air and almost immediately, my mouth was filled with dirt. It was cloying, it was gritty, I could barely breathe. Every time I inhaled, I choked on more dirt, dry-heaving, itching, reaching, grasping--panicking--My legs couldn’t move, my waist couldn’t move, the sheer amount of pressure pushing against my ribcage, against my already straining lungs--I couldn’t ta-take. I couldn’t take it, it was too much, too much, too hard to breathe--
They take a second from the story, eyes fluttering open, taking in the light around them. They take a deep breath, slowly, shakily, and attempt to stop their jaw shaking.
“I woke up in the hospital last week. Some construction workers found us before I suffocated. Apparently, I made a lot of noise. My sister-Skye-she’s.” Robin presses the palm of their hands to their eyes, grimace and quivering mouth enrapturing every inch of Jon. “She’s dead. Somehow, after all that, the rock is the only bloody thing that managed to kill her. My-my injuries and testimony cemented a theory that the police had a bit ago, and they’re looking into the missing person reports from her area. They can’t charge her or anything, not without the bodies or solid connections, but at least they’ll find some answers. Those families deserve it.”
“My parents--they aren’t taking it well, but at least they have the mind to pay off the news. They’re keeping eyes off of our family, and by extension, me.” Robin takes a couple of grounding breaths and narrows their eyes at Jon, fingernails digging into the inside of their palms. “Are you satisfied Archivist? Was that enough for you?”
Jon reaches across the table and pulls the recorder closer to himself, along with their empty cups. “Quite. An excellent story, at the very least. Don’t worry about the rubbish. Least I can do.”
They silently get up from the table, never taking their eyes off of Jon, fingers gripping tightly onto their keys. He notices the way they hold them, but makes no move to follow them.
He watches until they get to their car, commiting the license plate, make, and model to memory. He hesitates a moment, but repeats it into the cassette a moment later, squirming, sticky feeling clogging up his intestines once more.
“10:56. Statement Ends.”