The Magnus Archives (podcast)

The thought was not mine. That I know for sure.

I can see what you think. Doctors call it intrapsychic hallucinations. Typical symptom of schizophrenia. But that is not my case.

I saw myself die. I felt it.
It wasn’t a dream nor a vision. It’s more like… a memory. But it is not mine, it cannot be. How could I have a memory of my own death? If it isn’t mine, then who had put it into my head?

I was walking home from work. It was dark, around midnight I think. There was the same stretch of roadwork as there had been in the past three weeks. Suddenly something shot up from the hole in the pavement. It looked like a very thin arm with more joints than I thought was possible.
It reached right into my chest and squeezed my heart. I froze. It was so cold and dark. I don’t know how I could’ve felt darkness inside my chest, but I did. It held me tighter and tighter. Have you ever felt life slowly abandoning you? It’s a horrible feeling. You just slip further away into nothingness. You can’t do anything, there is nothing to hold on to.
As I was almost unconscious, I saw it. Eyes.
I couldn’t see the whole creature, just the angular limp and those staring eyes. The gaze penetrated into my mind. It feasted on my fear. These inhuman eyes were the scariest thing I’ve ever seen. Or…have not seen.
Then I died. And there was nothing.

I woke up on the same street. It started to dawn.

I am very scared.

I am going to die soon. I am sure of it now. And you probably can’t help me.
I am going to die.
I know, because I saw it.

Jon would be much calmer if he could watch the body of Jane Prentiss burn.

He took some time to recover. His wounds healed, but his mind was filled with thoughts. He wished he could forget all the supernatural and just be normal for a while. But it seemed impossible.

She was gone.
The body of Jane Prentiss burnt to ash.

Was it even “she”? Or was it just a living hive, just an empty shell filled with thousands of worms?
The worm creature died in the archives, but Jon was sure that Jane Prentiss was dead long, long before.

Jon gestured towards the tape recorder lying on his table: „Please, state your name and a subject of your experience.” He could almost hear the response even before it actually had been spoken.

„What? Are you serious? You really want me to tell my story into that rattling piece of junk?”
„Into that? You’re joking.”
„I see why no one takes you guys seriously.”

Jon sighed. What else could he do? The tape recorder was the only way to have an audio copy of the statements, as other ways of digitalization met with audio distortions.
Tapes were better than nothing.