Work Text:
[THE ARCHIVIST #582
TRANSCRIBED BY MPHO ACHEBE
DATE: N/A]
[AUDIO BEGINS.]
[click]
Archivist: "Do you need -"
Jamie Mamoru: "No, no, I'm good. I'm used to this. I'm fine getting about by myself."
[The Archivist and the new subject take their seats.]
Archivist: "Ah. R - Right. Of course. Apologies. Statement from Jamie Mamoru regarding an encounter with a peculiar stray cat. Statement taken direct from subject. Statement begins."
Jamie Mamoru: "Like I said I've gotten used to being blind. It's fine. I've never seen a movie so I don't miss the visuals - audio descriptions are just fine for me. I tend to prefer audio books anyway. Books paint a picture much better. I was living in a flat at the time, ground floor obviously. Council owned, with a few railings and things like that to make it more accessible for me. There was a communal garden just outside my east window. They called it a garden because 'patch of dead grass with no plants or wildlife' sounded too grim but that's what it actually was. I had the man from the council describe it when he was showing me the property and he did so with some hesitation and apology. But I didn't mind. I've always liked gardening. I take pleasure in planting non-invasive pollinators, attracting songbirds and hedgehogs and mice with habitat enrichers. I've built more than a few frog ponds. It's been something I've loved since I was a child. I cannot see the flowers bloom…but I can smell their sweet perfumes, feel their soft petals and fluffy stems.
I know they're beautiful. I'd intended to give this communal garden the same treatment when I moved in. I assumed the term 'communal garden' meant everyone communally gardened this patch together. I took the lack of plant life or decor to mean my neighbours just didn't have green thumbs or the time to care for our shared little bit of land. I was devastated when I called the council about hiring someone to test the soil and get an idea of the local species of plants and wildlife. The impatient woman on the other end told me in no uncertain terms that 'communal garden' does not mean a garden that is cared for communally. It simply means that everyone in my block has the right to go into the garden and sit there. Play with a ball. Take their dog to do its business. But the land itself may not be altered or grown in and wildlife are not welcome, not to be bred or housed purposefully on the property. At the very least, I was told that I'm allowed to hang bird houses on the small patch of wall outside my door.
Not allowed to invite new wildlife and quickly growing bored of the limited amount of birdsong, I soon realised that people's pets and other gardens around the neighbourhood might be my best shot at regularly spending time with Mother Earth so to speak. I can't explain why, but this connection with nature has always called to me, filled me with a need to be close to living, breathing things. Even when I was a child, I would wander out into the garden to sit in the flowerbed and listen to the squirrels playing in the canopy above. I got told off for it all the time. A blind child should not wander alone after all. I very nearly drowned on several occasions in my grandmother's koi pond. It never put me off. I adore nature in all its forms. So, I took to walking around my new neighbourhood with my cane and my brightly coloured lanyard. It was a quiet area but when you're blind you can't be too careful. It took two weeks of regular walks to get used to the maze-like layout of the cookie cutter council estate. All the builds were the same, the gardens laid out in the exact same way. I started listening intently as I walked, and soon noticed and began mapping out the content of the area. Which houses had dogs, large gardens, trees, ponds. It helps that people feel too impolite to decline neighbourly chat with a blind person. I would make comments about the weather and how their garden must be doing. They would realise with sheepish fumbling that I couldn't actually see their garden and would offer a shambling, vague description. Depending on the neighbour, they'd offer little nuggets of information about the area. One complained about the pigeons roosting on her roof. Another complained that the area was rife with ants, and advised me to buy some traps for my kitchen.
But one man…one man talked about cats. Strays that congregated on his garage roof and sunbathed, did their business in his garden and chased off the songbirds he was trying to attract. I love cats. It's hard to describe how you perceive cats when you're blind but for me, cats have always been my favourite animal. Don't get me wrong, I love dogs and other animals too. But cats are so quiet and gentle. They sit still patiently while I run my hand gently down them, trying to get an idea of what they look like. To hear that the neighbourhood had a cat problem, I was beyond happy. My walks around the neighbourhood were okay, but I felt the eyes of my neighbours on me as I stopped to sniff and feel their rosebush over their fence or stood by their cherry tree to hear the rustling of the blossoms. Attracting cats to my bare little garden became my most likely opportunity to interact with nature.
So I did a shop. Got some cat trees and toys, catnip, treats, bowls and little sachets of food. My ground floor flat has this pair of glass patio doors that lead out to the garden area, you see. I set the stuff up in my living room, with a few of the smaller items just outside the door. I was tempting a warning from the council by putting out the bowls but it was worth it. The first cat to poke his curious head into my living room was a large fluffy one. I wish I could have gotten a better feel of his shape so I could tell you his exact breed but he only stayed for five minutes before sauntering back out. Weeks passed and I gradually befriended the local cats, winning the trust and affection of each one by being patient and respectful with them, as you really should be with cats. My neighbours mentioned it to me, mentioned how I should be careful in case one of them attacks me. As far as I could tell from asking about one there'd been this wave of activity in the last few years involving cats attacking pets and small children and even a few adults. I waved them off and tried to explain how misunderstood cats are, but they seemed so…nervous. So sure that these cats posed a danger.
I ignored them anyway. I know that seems stupid of me now, but people really do misunderstand cats. They see them as temperamental and mean, aggressive. But they're not, you just have to be gentle with them. You can't approach a cat the way you would a dog, you have to - Well. That's a tangent for another time. Basically, I was warned and I didn't listen. At some point late in the summer, the amount of cats just…dropped. It was gradual at first, just a few cats visiting less and less. I'd only known them a little while but I could already tell the cats apart and, well, I was worried about them. People are mean to stray cats and a lot of them felt very thin, so I worried they'd been hurt, killed, or just perished to any number of diseases that affect stray cats. [Laughter]. I could go on a spiel just about that, about how harmful having an 'outdoor' cat is. But I'll do my best to stay focused. I got concerned about the cats, about what was happening to them and as each one stopped coming back, I decided to figure out why.
I bought a set of cameras. Not exactly allowed by the council to put up my own cameras but I didn't care. I felt so strongly about the cats, about animals in general, that I felt it was worth a fine or a warning on my tenancy. I had one of my brother's children set it up, they're good with that kind of thing. We arranged that they'd visit at the end of the week to go through the footage for me and see what was going on. I was expecting there to be some teenagers scattering poison, or maybe an elderly tenant in the building waving a stick at them. People are mean to cats, really mean, and just about every horrible thing was playing on my mind. I was worried about it all week, and I'd been losing sleep over it. These poor innocent cats, just trying to get by. It's not their fault people don't neuter or care for their own cats properly, they don't deserve - [a large heaved sigh]. Sorry.
When my nieces came back to review the footage, I was wrought up to point, just fuming at the idea of these cats being mistreated in any way. I warned my nieces that the footage might be upsetting, and they're both nice girls in their late teens so I thought they were suitably prepared and aware of what they were getting into. The footage was normal at first. They described the cats enjoying my blank little patch of garden. Sunbathing, rolling around in the catnip, helping themselves to the bowls of food and water I'd set out. It made me smile. But as the first night of footage approached, the cats scattered until one cat remained in the garden. They described the cat as small and with thin hair and a limp. I recognised the description as 'Scratch', one of my favourites. I hadn't seen him in a few days and I asked anxiously what was happening.
But my niece's grew still and quiet as they watched and as they kept watching, they stopped describing. I felt as blind as I was and waited impatiently for more details. Their breath caught as something happened and I pleaded what were they seeing. But they still didn't answer. A few more tense seconds passed until they gasped and one excused herself. My other niece, the younger, stayed behind. I was beside myself with worry at this point and she gently began to explain. A dark shape had appeared. It stood over Scratch, blocking the camera's view for a few moments. And when the dark shape moved aside, Scratch laid still and skinless on the ground like a discarded piece of meat. I listened to her description with tears in my eyes. I asked for more details, more descriptions of the shape. Was it a person? An animal? She could not speak further, every time she tried she seemed to choke and get more upset. I asked her to check the others nights of camera footage but she stammered out a shaky apology and left.
I was broken up about Scratch. He was tiny, likely less only a year or two old. I couldn't believe that anyone could do something so awful to something so tiny and innocent. I was angry, and I'll admit that informed my rash, impulsive decision to…do a stakeout. That's not so easily done when you're blind so I suppose what I really mean by stakeout is…I waited in my garden that night. I know, I know that's not smart. But every time I caught myself thinking 'this is stupid, this is dangerous' I just thought of my niece and her shaking voice describing poor little Scratch laying still and skinned on the floor. And the anger would rise in me, would convince me there was no other option. So I opened those two patio doors, exposing my living room to the cold evening air. I pulled my chair over and sat there in the open doorway, listening to the radio as I waited. The hours passed and even though it wasn't winter, the back end of summer still has these cold, cold nights. I had to bring over a blanket eventually. Sipped cold tea as I waited, for a sound, for a sign of anything in the garden. My dwindling number of cats had at this point dropped to zero, so I didn't even have the company of them to give me comfort. Every minute, every hour that passed, I felt a growing dread at what I might meet.
It's hard to explain. But my anger and conviction melted a little. Not in the direction of forgiveness or calm, or even changing my mind and deciding to let it go. But it felt like something was making me…angrier. Like some part of me was pushing, screaming for justice. And I wasn't just going to settle for scolding this creepy intruder, this rage felt thirsty, like it needed me to hurt whoever did this. Cause them the same pain they'd caused my cats. This thing that would be so cruel felt so unnatural, so deeply inanimate…That part of me, the part that loves nature and animals and living things…that part of me is so different than this new part that demanded a bloody and immediate retribution. The feeling melted over me like ice over an open flame and it made me sick. An idea presented itself in my mind, the idea of killing and skinning the thing that did this, forcing it to experience the same pain. The rage wanted this, wanted it so badly my fingers were twitching as if there was already a sharp knife in hand. I don't know what would have happened if that part of me was stronger than the part of me that deeply loves nature and living things. But it wasn't. I stood up, shaking off the rage with no easy amount of self restraint, intending to pull my chair back in and close the doors.
Just then, I heard a faint rustle. The garden was bare, so it could only have a very small step, placed accidentally in a patch of particularly dry leaves. My head snapped towards the sound and instead of retreating inside as I had decided, I stepped towards it.
"Hello?" I offered, supposing I should make sure it wasn't just one of my neighbours out for a walk.
There was a silence, no response, and then another sound. It was another step, this one sharp and crisp as if whoever was there had given up on maintaining any secrecy and just wanted me to know they were approaching, gradually and deliberately. I decided from the lack of response that this must be the dark shape, the disgusting person who would harm my cats. I took a step towards it and fell into an indignant stance with my hands on my hips and my eyes staring blankly ahead. I started speaking, intending at first to just ask the person to explain themself. But as the words fell out of my mouth, I could hear myself rambling angrily about cats, about animals in general. That nature loving part of myself seemed to glow and burn, filling me with a righteous need to force this person to understand, to empathise. But as I talked and talked, I realised there was no other noise.
People make noise. Ambient noise they don't realise they make. They breathe, sigh, shift their weight, scuff their feet, their keys shift in their pockets, their skin makes noise when they fidget their fingers and their clothes make a little scratching noise at every movement. But there was no sound. Other than two small steps in the crunchy, fallen leaves…there was nothing. I trailed off in the middle of my rant, realising I might be scolding thin air. With every passing second, I doubted myself more and more. I've never wished that I wasn't blind like I did in that moment. I just…I just wanted to know what was happening. I felt so helplessly, stupidly blind in that moment. I moved forward. I figured if there was a very still, very quiet person there then I would shove them and if there was no one, then…then I could go back inside and try to just sleep it off. I took six steps, which I knew meant I was standing just up against the fence that encloses the garden. I still couldn't hear anything, so I held out my hands, swiping at open air.
Until…I felt something soft. I drew my hand back with a gasp. But in the seconds that followed I processed what I had touched. Fur. Soft, long, fluffy fur. My anger softened immediately and whatever strange rage had started to bubble drained away, leaving only concern for this new cat. It moved away after that first touch as if skittish and I could hear its claws clicking faintly along the fence. I followed, keeping my hands to myself. I whispered to the cat, tried to coax it into the garden. I fumbled in my pocket for some treats, which I almost always carry. It was little chunks of chicken, cut up into neat cubes. I held it out, slowly approaching. I still couldn't hear a single thing from the cat, but after losing all the others…I was desperate to make it clear that my garden, and me by extension, were a safe place. As I moved closer, hand outstretched, I felt warm breath ghosting over my skin as the cat considered my offering. Then the familiar feel of its tongue as it lapped at the meat, soon finishing off the whole handful. It licked at my skin after as if still hungry. Poor kitty, I thought to myself. I didn't get a good feel of it during the brief touch, but I guessed it must be another thin stray struggling to get food in a neighbourhood unwelcoming of cats. I patted my thigh for the cat to follow, and I heard some slow noises in the leaves as if it had started but wasn't sure. I made some encouraging noises. Cooing, kissy noises, a little psss psss pssss. Y'know? And there was more noise in the grass as though it was coming closer. So I went inside, and I was pleased when I heard the tinkle of the bell, on the highest cat tower. A cat making itself at home is a very good sign, especially if it's playing.
I went in the fridge and got out the rest of the chicken. My brother's husband always drops off any carcasses or bones when they have a roast chicken, you see, because I famously make excellent chicken broth. I felt something brush against my legs as I returned to the living room and I smiled, glad the cat seemed to warm up to me a bit. I started holding out more chicken and the cat was happy to eat from my hand. So quickly, so greedily, I grew even more concerned that it may be starving. I dropped a bit more chicken on the floor and left the plate on my counter as I went for my phone, thinking I might call this one in. I don't like doing it, because even no-kill shelters have been known to mistreat cats. But if the cat was emaciated, then it needed a vet, not just leftover chicken. There was a loud chomping sound and I realised, feeling quite silly, that I had left the chicken plate where the cat could get it. I reached for the plate, gently chiding the cat. But the plate suddenly got much lighter as I felt the cat make off with the carcass. I hurried after it, reaching out and gently trying to encourage it to come back so I could take the bones away. Even though cats are carnivores and more than capable of sorting out bones by themselves, I was worried it might choke on them or get a shard stuck in its insides. Hungry animals eat things even if they know it's not safe. But the cat kept evading me. Even when I thought I had backed it into a corner, there was nothing there. I had a lot of cat towers and climbing toys and scratching posts at that point so I guessed it was jumping around and neatly avoiding my clumsy hands. So I decided to let it be and listen out for choking noises.
I stayed up for another couple of hours keeping an eye on it but the cat just settled on the couch across the room. It showed no interest in leaving and I do have a cat flap so…I set out a few blankets and bowls for it. At that point I was just glad I managed to help this cat. This one cat. This cat was fine, this cat was fed, this cat was inside for the night. So I finally went to bed. This is where things got…weird. I mean things had already been a bit weird. But you know what I mean. I closed my door. I always did. I loved the cats, but when they stayed over, I didn't like them in my room. I have crochet blankets and medications on the nightstand and I know it's a cat's nature to scratch things and do their business sometimes so it was just nice to have a space that's my own. I remember closing my door, hearing the familiar click. I remember it. I'm sure you know where I'm going with this. When I woke I felt the mattress dip beside me. The cat was with me. I reached out groggily and felt my hand brush against his fur. The cat made a quiet noise, as if taken by surprise, and darted away. I must have woken him.
I sat up in bed, feeling some regret for sleepily reaching out. Since that first brief contact, the cat hadn't let me touch him - which I was fine with, not every cat is touchy and strays have more reason than most to be wary of human touch. I heard a strange noise and slid out of bed. It took me a second to figure out what was going on but I felt a breeze and heard the neighbour down the road mowing his lawn. The patio doors had been opened. Both of them. The cat flap is on the front door and wasn't moving when I knelt down and touched it, so I don't think…But I disregarded any other possibilities. A cat opening doors is ridiculous. And even though I know 100% that I closed and locked those doors, I assumed I must have left them open anyway. And after a quick feel around of my belongings I was grateful to notice that even if the doors had been open all night, no one seemed to have stolen anything. With the cat gone and everything seeming okay, I decided to call my niece. I asked her to come over and review last night's footage. I thought maybe they could tell me what the cat looked like, if he was emaciated and what have you. My brother took the phone from her and told me very politely that they love me, but I can't ask his daughters to manage my cameras again. I told him I understood and didn't ask again. I went about my day and then I went about my week. The cat didn't return until nearly two weeks later. During all this time, none of my other regular cats ever came back. I was just glad to have one. One stray that trusted me to look after him.
I waited at night a few more times, but whatever that 'dark shape' was…I suppose they had moved on now that it scared off all the other cats. I worried they might come back for the new cat, but he seemed hardy and always came back to me. Over and over. Always so hungry, so needy for feeding. Despite seeming comfortable in my home, the cat never allowed me to touch him. Sometimes he would wait, and let me gently, slowly reach out and pet his hair a little. But other than that, the cat would easily evade my unsure hands. I didn't mind too much. The cat's frequent visits, sitting quietly in my living room and gladly taking treats and little bits of meat I had…it was enough. Enough to quell that need I had to be with nature, to be around something living. And he really was a quiet cat. I mean in all the months that cat came around, he never meowed, growled, chittered or hissed. To be frank, I don't even remember hearing him breathe. Just the little scratches on the cat tower, the bells he would occasionally play with a little, and the soft sound of him taking his usual spot on the couch. And on nights he stayed, I always woke up beside him. It didn't matter if I closed my door, locked it, put furniture in the way. In the morning, everything would be normal except the door would be open. It didn't worry me at the time, like somehow I just couldn't bring myself to be concerned. The cat never messed up my room and I just stopped closing the door.
I gave him a name eventually. Micky. I've always liked that name. If I knew his colour or identifying marks maybe I could have called him spot or cocoa but…having no idea what the cat looked like, I just defaulted to the first name that came to mind. Micky was my companion for…I think four months? And during that time…a few strange things happened. Micky would come and go as he liked. And it always seemed that he would do so, whether I opened the door or not. I mean I know he could have been using the cat flap - but the cat flap is made of that thick plastic sheeting and makes a loud, distinct noise when used. And I never heard it once. And then - And then, Micky started doing something really strange. Autumn was deepening and it was getting cold so I swapped my summer sheets for the thick winter duvet. The first night I used this big duvet…Micky climbed on top of me. I was thrilled, I mean to initiate such contact is very brave for such a skittish cat. I kept both arms under my duvet and stilled, not wanting to scare him off. But something was off. Wrong. He was…heavy. Really heavy. I've had a weighted blanket in the past and he was as heavy, if not heavier. I could still breathe comfortably and move around a bit. I realised with a smile that he must be a chunky cat, that he either always was or he'd put a bit of weight on since I started feeding him. I let him settle down and sleep on me. And he started doing that every night.
I felt quite blessed honestly that this cat, this cat that must have been through something to cause it to fear direct contact, was finally trusting me. Trusting me enough to sleep right on top of me. Things were in this comfy status quo for a while. But one night, I woke suddenly to a sharp pain in my arm. He scratched me. I must have moved in my sleep and accidentally touched him. His weight disappeared off my chest as he retreated away. I got up, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. I knew I must have damaged a little bit of that valuable trust and that just broke my heart. The scratch was deep and I could feel blood trickling down but my only concern was the cat. I followed Micky and got some treats out, hoping to coax him into staying or at least forgiving me. I did a lap of the living room, treats outstretched in my hand. I followed the cat to the hallway, counting the steps along the way like I usually do. The hallway is nine steps long, a short little space where I hang my coats and bags and things like that, and there's the front door at the end.
But that night, as I felt along the wall out of habit, there was a new door. It was open, and it smelled damp and cold inside. I sleepily assumed I must have gotten turned around, that I must have left the door to my spare room open. I could hear a faint noise inside, so I followed it. I thought it was Micky. The moment I stepped inside, the door slammed shut. I turned and felt for the door. But my desperate scrabbling hands couldn't feel anything. No door, no windows. Not even a skirting board. At this point I was wide awake and panicking a bit, a childlike panic like being at the zoo with your family and looking up to notice none of them are around you anymore. It felt so overwhelming. But more than that, I was worried about Micky. I didn't want him to think I had shut him in this room so is started feeling around for him, whispering his name and making those little noises. I couldn't find him. And while feeling around…I realised with a dreadful certainty that I was not in my spare room, or any room in the flat or even the block of flats. It was a hallway, a corridor, long and winding. Every turn was a left turn. After four I was even more confused about where I was - four of the same turn makes a circle, y'know? I moved slowly and with each step I felt as much of the wall and the floor as possible. There was nothing. Just smooth, cold cement. The floor, the walls. I wasn't tall enough to feel the ceiling. No windows, doors, no decor on the walls, no rugs or anything on the floor. No light switches. No nails or holes in the walls like there usually are even in quite a plain room. It was as if the whole place had been sanded down to offer me as little information as possible.
I kept moving forward and the corridor just kept turning inward, an endless maddening loop. I kept calling out to Micky, and my concern for him was the only thing keeping me from losing my mind altogether. Every time a wave of helplessness and fear rose in me, my instinct to find and protect my cat was stronger. So I just kept moving forward. After a while, I decided to turn back, to find the beginning and just look for the door again. But when I turned around…it was just more left turns. Which was impossible. But I knew what I felt. I've been blind since I can remember, but I have never felt as helplessly, blindly lost as I did then. I began calling louder for Micky. I still had some treats in my pocket, so I took them out and began sprinkling them behind me.
Some time later, maybe hours, I finally heard a noise. At this point, I'd gotten used to Micky's presence, the way he sounded and moved. I called out to him immediately and he came and ate some treats from my hand like usual. It was a huge comfort, such a huge comfort I cried with relief. He moved away a little and…stopped. I followed him and he did it again. I realised he was leading me, guiding me. I was hopelessly lost so…I just followed him. He led me through twists and turns and these ones felt real, not just left turn after left turn. Micky guided me to a door. He stopped beside it and I practically wept with relief when I reached out and felt rough wood instead of smooth cement. I found the handle and opened it back to my flat. Micky went to his spot on the sofa as if nothing had happened and when I turned around, I couldn't feel the door. Just the smooth wall of my hallway. I followed Micky to the living room and checked the time. My clock announced that it was morning. Two days later. I had somehow wandered in those twisting halls for two whole days. I wasn't hungry, thirsty, or tired in all that time. If I'd had to guess, I would have said I was only gone a few hours.
I didn't tell anyone what happened. I know what they'd say. That I never woke up that night, it was just a dream, just a blind person getting lost at night. But I had scratches on my arm that were two days healed. Food in my fridge had gone off. I had a pile of mail waiting. It was so strange. And if it hadn't been so upsetting, I probably would have shrugged it off and forgotten about the whole thing. But that night…Micky lay on top of me again. I fell asleep as usual, and was woken again to him scratching me, harder this time. So hard I screamed. He got off the bed and went out into the hall. I wanted to follow him, to offer treats and soothing words again. But I heard that door slamming again, felt that smooth concrete on my hand again and I just couldn't. I couldn't follow him again into that place. He got out once, I was sure he could get out again. I went back to sleep without even bandaging my scratches. I woke again, and this time I woke hard, to the sound of cat's cries. If you've ever been sent one of those horrible videos, or if you've been around cats, then you know that chilling sound they make when they're in pain. It's not the angry yowl stock sound they use in movies. It's grating, it fills you with panic.
I leapt out of bed, filled with concern for Micky. I felt guilt wash over me for leaving him to fend for himself as I rushed out, following the sound to the hallway. That door was there again and the noises echoed inside in this awful, awful way. I walked in without hesitation, desperate to help him. I must have been walking quickly, worriedly, for about thirty seconds before the noises filled me with a new sense of wrongness. I stood still, listening. And I slowly realised…it was the same noises. The same two or three noises of pain and fear looped and played over each other, distorted and backwards. I froze in place, dread washing over me. But it was too late. The noises had lured me into this smooth, terrifying place again. I moved a little further forward and felt along the wall. Another left turn. I sat down, refusing to go any further. I'd decided that sitting and trying to calm down was better than wandering around and getting myself more worked up. The noises of pain stopped the moment I made my decision, leaving me in a blank silence. I worried for Micky. Was he really hurt or were those sounds just an illusion? Was he even in here or was I all alone? He was the only reason I got out the first time so I started calling for him again. He didn't come.
After a couple of hours of just sitting and waiting I tried to sleep, but I just couldn't. So I got up and started feeling my way around again. Smooth concrete, everywhere. Nothing more. I can't explain how terrifying it is as a blind person to feel nothing, to be able to discern nothing of my environment. I came across a deadend, the first I'd found. It was just as flat and smooth as the rest of the place. Except…it didn't feel as cold. I pressed both hands to the wall and it felt…a little warm. I imagined a door, pictured it as clearly as I could considering I've never actually seen one. And I reached out, with a familiar sureness for where I knew the doorknob to always be. My hand closed around metal and I turned it instinctively, falling straight into my living room floor. I turned and felt the wall but again, the door was gone. Micky was nowhere to be found. This visit to the corridors had lasted about 37 hours.
And it's been happening ever since. I go to bed, and at some point in the night the doors call to me in some way, lure me. That's why I'm here, you see. I didn't want to reach out to family because I know how it'd sound, but someone mentioned this place to me and I figured…I thought maybe you could come investigate. See if you can see these doors. And stop it from happening again. It's…awful. Getting lost in those halls. I can't explain it. Micky's been okay and that's even creepier. I've tried to stop him from coming in but he always finds a way. I've tried locking him out of my room at night but he always comes in. He lies down on top of me no matter what I do. And wakes me, tries to lure me to the hallway. He's freaking me out. I got rid of all my cat stuff. Stopped feeding him besides leaving a bowl outside. But he keeps coming.
I just - I'm thinking you take artifacts so maybe - maybe you'd take him. Either look after him or - or…I don't know. I still care for him. I still love him, I still feel connected to him, but I just don't want this anymore. It's too much. I can't handle it. I never know when he's going to come he just - just shows up. An awful thought occurred to me. The doors. The only reason I know they're there is because I go over and I feel them. But…that must be how he's getting in. That must be where he came from. These doors…I'll bet they're opening all the time. I hate thinking about sleeping, showering, having dinner and all the while these creepy doors are just…there. I - I need a minute. There's more, I just…Can I step outside for a second?"
Archivist: "What? Oh - uh, yes - y - yes, of course. Just, here…"
[Two sets of footsteps receding. The Archivist's door opens. Jamie Mamoru steps outside. One set of footsteps returns and the Archivist retakes his seat.]
Archivist: [A heaving sigh.] "This is…concerning to say the least. Another appearance of this corridor, this spiral. I'm not sure how the cat fits into it. I hope it's not Michael's cat. I'm not sure a cat would fare well under his care."
[A door swings open with a creak. A loud, haunting laugh echoes around the room. The Archivist's chair pushes back with a squeak.]
Archivist: "Michael."
Michael: "Mmmmmyes."
Archivist: "Get. Out."
Michael: "Mmmmmmnoo."
[A rapid set of footsteps, followed by a thump and a pained whimper from the Archivist.]
Michael: "I've come to warn you."
Archivist: [With a pained voice.] "The warning usually comes first, just so you know."
[Another shrieking, echoing laugh.]
Michael: "I like what trauma is doing to your sense of humour, Archivist. The warning is simple. Do not…"
[The Archivist lets out another noise of pain.]
"...investigate the subject you are currently interviewing. That's all! It is simply none of your concern."
Archivist: "I don't need to investigate to know you've got your creepy fingers all over this case. Why are you - ow, ow, ow -"
Michael: "I will not repeat myself. If you don't use these ears, I shall return and rip them from your head! Tell me you understand, Archivist."
Archivist: "I - I do - I - ahh - I understand, please -"
Michael: "Great! I know your curiosity will lead you to investigate if I don't at least give you a little taste. So, you may ask onnnnnnne question."
Archivist: "Why?"
Michael: "Ugh. Good one. Because…that particular human, is mine. All mine. And I don't want you and your institute and the wider web involved. This one is just for me. I'm just having a liiiittle fun. And no, I am not going to have this one like I have the others. I'm just playing. This one is…interesting to me."
Archivist: "Wh - what? I mean…. what? What about the cat??"
Michael: "I did say one question, didn't I?"
[The Archivist's door opens and a normal silence resumes. Michael's static disappears.]
Jamie Mamoru: "Sorry I was so long, I was…Are you okay? Your face is bleeding."
Archivist: "I'm - I - I'm fine. Did you - did you have more to say? Of your statement?"
[One set of footsteps approaching. Jamie Mamoru retakes a chair.]
Jamie Mamoru: "Yes. Yes, I do. There's one more thing. I - I tried to leave, it was the only rational thing I could think of. I gave my brother and his husband some story about break ins in my neighbourhood and they offered their spare room. I lay down in that bed and felt some semblance of peace but…that night, Micky came back. He lay on top of me like usual. I screamed, horrified that he found me. My brother's husband came running in, wielding a lamp. But when he flicked the light on and looked around, he told me there was no cat in the room. That my door was closed tight and the windows were locked. I tried to explain it away, told him I must have been having a nightmare. But I could hear in his shaky voice that he had some sense, some inkling that something was really wrong here. But I lied anyway, I can't stand the idea of dragging my brother's family into this. I never fell back asleep. But Micky came back only ten minutes after I was alone and lay on top of me again. I couldn't fall asleep but it hardly mattered. It happened exactly as I worried it would. After a few hours, when the house was silent, Micky left the bed and I heard those awful looping cat screams in the distance, in the depths of the door. I cried as I lay there, realising the cat and the doors would follow me everywhere, that I would know no peace from them. You have to help me. You have to. I can't live like this. I feel like - like I'm being toyed with. Like…[laughs hollowly] Like a cat with a mouse."
Archivist: "I - I see. W - well. We will certainly look into this."
Jamie Mamoru: "Is that it? Is there nothing you can tell me?"
[A long pause.]
Archivist: "Uh - I - I - Hm. [A deep sigh.] We've dealt with this…occurrence before. I'm not sure there really is a solution. I - I'm sorry."
Jamie Mamoru: "I see. Okay. I'll just..I'll be going then. It was nice to - Oh. Oh…Hello you. It's him, it's Micky. How did you get here? Do you see him? [...] Please tell me you see this creepy damn cat. [...] Please. Mr Sims? Do you see him? [...] Please answer me. Mr Sims."
[The Archivist's breath comes faster, shallower and there's a clatter of furniture as he backs away. Michael's static intensifies.]
Archivist: "W - Would you perhaps - please, step outside again and g - give me a moment with…Micky."
[Jamie Mamoru making quiet, illegible noises as they whisper things in a soft voice. There is a faint, wet noise followed by crunching as they feed something.]
Jamie Mamoru: "Why? It's just a cat. I mean I know this situation is really creepy but -"
[Michael's static amps up. Jamie Mamoru makes a loud, startled noise of terror. There's another scrabbling noise as they back away in a similar manner to the Archivist.]
Jamie Mamoru: "That was a face, what the fuck -"
Michael: "What's wrong? I thought you wanted to pet me. You've been trying for monthsssss . Go on, Jamie…Touch me again. I think I like it."
Jamie Mamoru: "Oh my god. No, no, no. This can't be happening. M - Mr - Mr Sims - please, what do you see?"
Michael: "I'mmmmm Michael. Micky was a nice nickname though, you can keep calling me that if you like."
Archivist: "Michael. Stop this. Stop it now. I'm - I'm so sorry, it's…it's not a cat, Jamie. It's…I don't know what it is, to be honest."
Jamie Mamoru: "A - All this time?? Oh god…did you…"
Michael: "Kill your cats? Yyyyyes. That's how I found you. I was going to kill you too but…you were never scared. Why weren't you scared of me?"
[...]
Michael: "Humans can usually sense me, even blind ones. But not you. You sense my presence and nothing more. Even now…you're not really scared. Not like how the Archivist is scared. Hmmmm?"
Archivist: "N - Now, stay back, Michael, st - stay -"
[The Archivist makes a pained noise.]
Jamie Mamoru: "Wh - what are you doing? What's happening?"
Michael: "Driving home a point. I have told the Archivist in no uncertain terms that the Institute will not interfere with you. That's my job. Don't forget my warning, little Archivist."
Archivist: "L - Let go - ahh - "
[There is a thumping noise, and the sound of the Archivist hitting the floor.]
Michael: "Come along, Jamie. I'll guide you home."
[A door clicks open.]
Jamie Mamoru: "...What are you?"
Michael: "Micky. I want to be Micky."
Jamie: "You want to be…a pet?"
Michael: "No. Yes. Coming?"
[There's a strange noise as Michael's presence fades through the door.]
Jamie Mamoru: "I'm sorry, Mr Sims. I hope you'll be alright. I'm going to go with him. I have no idea why but… There's something about him. He's alive, and I - I…"
[There is a short pause, then Jamie Mamoru exits through the door, which clicks shut after.]
[...]
[The Archivist's breath is heavy and laboured as he wakes and struggles to stand.]
Archivist: "Martin! Martin! I need you -"
[An approaching rapid set of footsteps, followed by the Archivist's door opening.]
Martin: "Jon? You okay? You sounded…Oh god, your face. Your head -"
Archivist: "Just help me up. Please. Michael, he - he's…We have to do something."
[The footsteps approach closer. Martin helps the Archivist up.]
Martin: "Michael? Oh Jon, you look - Do you need to go to A&E?"
Archivist: "No, no I'll be fine - Martin, stop - ow - stop touching it."
Martin: "Sorry, sorry! Just keep that pressed on it to stop the bleeding. I have some paracetamol in my desk if it's…Um, do you want me to turn that off?"
Archivist: "What? Oh - y - yes. Yes, uh - statement ends."
[click]
[AUDIO ENDS.]
[Transcriber's Notes: Well. This is certainly an interesting one. The 'Michael' entity is quite frankly horrifying. I wish the tapes featuring him were marked so I could skip him. I have two cats myself and…this tape was particularly unsettling for me. Also I feel so bad for Jon. The Archivist, I mean. I feel like every other tape is just him getting absolutely wrecked by every entity he meets. Bro needs therapy. Anyways. I know I'm getting more and more informal in these notes but…I'm not doing well myself. The deeper I go, the worse I feel. It's been weeks since I left this place. This is not what I signed up for.]