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rosy-cheekx · 4 years

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Case #0162406: Fear Factor

Case #0162407. Statement of Katherine Brown, regarding her experience in a Fear Factory. Statement taken direct from subject by Jonathan Sims, head archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. In your own time, Ms. Brown.

Please, it’s just Katherine. Did you have any trouble getting here? I’ve been told it’s quite hidden away. And I’m sorry again to ask you to come here but, as you can see, there’s really no chance of being able to pop down to London for a little day trip.

No, Ms. Katherine, it was no trouble. From what I’ve heard from the papers you have quite a story to tell.

Oh...you read about me? I was really hoping you wouldn’t. I didn’t want you to think I was crazy before hearing my story. I get why they think I am; I get why I’m here. But I know what happened, I know I’m not--

Ms. Katherine, please. I’m not here to pass judgement on your condition, just to take your statement. Now... In your own time.

Yes. Yes, of course...

I’ve always been a bit of an adrenaline junkie. When I was a kid, my friends and I would do anything we could. We were kids in the middle of nowhere, so it was mostly shoplifting and riding our bikes down big hills really fast, just to feel that heart-pounding rush of fear and success of survival. Our favorite thing to do, though, was go to haunted houses. From September through to Halloween, we would go to any haunted house attraction we could find and scream ourselves silly. As we got older, it became a more complex game. How long could we last, who would scream the least or the loudest, just kid stuff. Most of us grew out of it eventually, those sorts of attractions only get so scary. Rachel and I, though, we couldn’t get enough of it. We started finding weirder and weirder places to scratch that itch, that need to be terrified. As soon as she had turned 18, being a month and a half younger than me, we had signed up to go to our first touchable house. Typically, haunted houses have a no-touching-the-patrons rule, so the ones that don’t offer that safety were alluring to us.

It sort of escalated from there, really. In America, there was a guy who had haunted houses so terrifying that you had to sign waivers and take a psych exam to go through. I’ve read all sorts of stories about them locking people in cages, cutting their hair, feeding them all sorts of things. All completely consensual, of course, a whole new level of terror attractions. It was shut down, I think, but that was the kind of scare we wanted. To go through something like that, and come out alive? We wanted to feel invincible, immortal.

Three years ago, I think, Rachel was in this forum, looking for some attractions that would be open in September. The weirder they are, the more likely they were to be open year-round, because Halloween wasn't the point. She found a really buried ad for one called Fear Factory. I think the ad labeled it as “an immersive experience sure to scare the life out of you.” There weren't any reviews on it at first, which was initially a red flag, but with some digging, we saw it was new. Like, opened-its-doors-a-month-ago new. They seemed to be legit, their website boasted of other locations in America and Canada, but reviews seemed to be locked behind a password, so the experience wasn’t spoiled for first timers. Rachel put us on the waiting list. We were both freshly 21, feeling unstoppable, and weren’t really thinking about the risks.

A week or so later, we both got an email, claiming our application had been accepted and we were being offered an experience at the Fear Factory next Friday. We both eagerly accepted, and they sent us an address of where to go. We looked it up; an old office complex, rundown, but that fit the aesthetic of something like this pretty well. They had us fill out some detailed surveys, asking about fears, hard limits, and random things, like our relationship to each other, where we went to school, our interests.

We drove together to the complex, parking outside the building, and taking time to do our due diligence. We both texted Peter, a schoolmate of ours, gave him the address of the place, and a time to check in with us. Some of these more complicated scenarios take a while, and it was already 9 in the evening, so we told him to call us at 2 a.m. to check that we were okay.

As we were both on our phones, we heard a woman clear her throat. She was tall, wearing a black jacket and jeans, and her sunglasses reflected the streetlamps off the lenses. She introduced herself as Mara and said she would take us to the “beginning of the end.” We laughed at that, elbowing each other over being scared. She took us up a few flights of stairs, before rapping a fingerless-gloved hand on the door of the third floor’s landing. She told Rachel to go in and someone would meet her there. I squeezed her hand twice before she left. I wish I had something, told her that I loved her, that I’d see her later, something.

She brought me to the sixth floor and showed me into a small room. There was a small chair, but the room was completely empty other than that. It smelled sickly sweet, like something rotting. Mara let me in and handed me a strip of black cloth. A blindfold. I sat in the chair and tied it, knotting it carefully beneath my ponytail. She told me to count to 100, take the blindfold off, and the game would begin. As she closed the door, something I couldn’t quite call music began to play. It was high pitched and resonant, almost like an echo of laughter layered over itself.

I began to count, feeling like a kid as I added an unspoken “one hundred” underneath to make sure I wasn’t counting too fast or to slow. As I reached one hundred, the creeping music stopped. I took off the blindfold and blinked to adjust to what I now found myself in: oppressively cold darkness. I stood and extended my hand, slowly making my forward to where I knew the door to be. The intense feeling of fear began to creep over me, and I felt an irresistible smile spread across my face. I found what must be the handle to the door and twisted it. I shut my eyes tight against the harsh white light that filled my field of view. I blinked and adjusted to the light of the stairwell gradually, feeling a wave of nausea wash over me. My vision pitched suddenly, the frame of the door bulging impossibly, twisting into what seemed like a smile. I inhaled sharply, like filling my lungs would catch my balance.

The sharp descending of the stairs twisted in front of me, my vision still swirling; it would take too long to take the time to carefully step down each without falling. I had to get to the fourth floor. I could escape there. Without really thinking about what I was doing, I leapt, hand on the railing, clearing the full set of steps as my anchored hand guided me down safely. The door for the fifth floor was in front of me, a dull pale metal, but I knew it wouldn’t be safe there. I repeated the process again, using the rail as a track for my hand as I jumped from the fifth floor landing to the fourth, the door with the 4 emblazoned in in black paint rising before me like the pearly gates. I would be safe there. I would be safe there.

I thrust open the door and found myself in the middle of a hallway. The floor was a murky pink and brown laminate, and the white ceiling low. There were no windows. Both ends of the hallway seem to split into two passages. Panic rose in my chest; they were coming. I had to go. I picked blindly, turning left, and running full tilt down the hall. Almost as soon as I had started running, I saw figures turn the corner. Their forms shed no shadows, a part of me registered, but it carried no weight as the bald, rotting, decrepit bodies sprinted towards me, ragged nails and broken teeth glinting in the light of the hallway. They leapt at me, biting and scratching. I’m sure I cried out as one took a chunk of flesh from my hand, but the blood pumping in my ears drowned out most sounds. I don’t know how I fought them off, honestly, adrenaline was overpowering all other senses. I continued running down the hallway.

There was a door. It was identical to the doors that had been in the stairwell, the cold brushed metal distorting reflections. It was only then, seeing a vague version of myself staring back at me that I realized I was no longer feeling that swirling dizziness. Relieved, I opened the door. I wasn’t entirely sure what I am expecting but it certainly wasn’t my dormitory. The tall bedframe, the simple desk, the wardrobe with the mirror hanging over the front of it. It was the mirror, of all things, that beckoned me. I let the door fall shut behind me as I took the few steps to cross the room and stare at myself. There was blood streaked across my face, and it dripped from my hands, which I realized with a start were still curled into tight fists. I had been wearing overalls over a sweater, but the front hung off me like a wilted petal, a snap apparently broken off during my previous encounter. I was a mess. I was dirty. I needed to change.

As soon as that thought had entered my head, I was already peeling off the destroyed overalls, all other thoughts set aside. I should have known it wasn’t over, that fighting a couple zombie-like creatures wouldn’t have been enough. It was too warm in this room, too sterile to be my dorm. But none of those concerns crossed my mind as I opened the creaky wooden door to the wardrobe, where I knew a fresh pair of jeans would be. And there were, I suppose. But opening the door had seemed to interrupt the new occupants of my closet, a massive hive of wasps that had built a nest along the swinging corner of the door and the small magnet that held the door closed. I had effectively torn the nest in two, and my error was not easily forgiven. I did hear myself scream this time as furious insects swarmed me, sharp stings lighting up my body like a thousand electric shocks. I staggered and backed into the wall, hands pressed over my eyes, too instinctively concerned for my sight to try to swipe at the wasps that flooded my senses. My scream didn’t last long, as my open mouth encouraged some stings to my tongue as well, and I gritted my teeth shut, heaving panicked breaths. I wasn’t sure how long I was there, pressed into the corner opposite the wardrobe, until gradually I realized that the stinging over my body was the throbbing of the previous wounds, not the inflicting of new ones. Tentatively uncovering my eyes, I surveyed the room. I was grateful to discover I must have knocked the mirror off its supports in my struggle, unable to comprehend what I must look like now, more histamine than human. I crept forward, avoiding the broken glass, except for a brief pause to stoop and gingerly grab a hefty shard. If there more of those undead bodies, I wanted to be ready. I also saw that the wasp’s nest was gone somehow. The compartment was devoid of the rolls of papery hive and any evidence the wasps had existed besides my aching body was gone. I was relieved and quickly grabbed the first pair of jeans I could find, wincing all the while as I shook out the folds. I refused to be sore and naked for whatever was about to happen next.

As I shook out the dark denim, I watched a handful of tiny specks fall off the pants. I wish it were a lie to say I almost laughed when I saw that they were ants, marching fastidiously along the creases of, upon inspection, every pair of pants I owned. Lucky for me, I suppose, that ants had never bothered me. The bad joke, however? Brutal.

You know how they say that adrenaline and fear help you preserve memories? Flashbulb memories, they’re called. Of traumatic or significant events. Well I think that even the adrenaline that was pounding through me had its limits. I don’t remember what happened next. I must have run out into the hallway, must have tried to find my way out, but it’s all a bit of a blur. I remember something to do with my teeth and a pair of pliers, but I don’t think there’s anything there I want to remember anyways. The next thing I remember, however, is something I don’t think I can ever forget.

I was in another long hallway. Or it could have been the same hallway, I’m not sure how I would know. I saw shadows shift and contract, and a form emerged, completely enveloped in shadow. It looked like a person only in that had two arms, two legs, a torso, and a head. The hands were long, and the elbows crooked at wrong angles. The torso was slightly lopsided, like the head was too big to be supported properly. The legs were also impossibly long, and I couldn’t see feet. There was a sound, too, that was bothering me, but I couldn’t quite place it. It was like a low droning or buzzing, like it was trying to speak to me. We stood, frozen in a face-off before it lunged at me, moving at impossible speeds. I blinked and it was practically on top of me, swiping with its talons for fingers. I took some nasty swipes across my abdomen and stabbed at it with my shard of mirror. I missed once but the second time, I stabbed it where the neck and shoulder met. Shadows spilt from the wound, covering my hand in dark fog.

That was when I heard it. The buzzing sound sharpened and cleared up. I heard Rachel, crying, saying my name. I blinked and the shadow person was gone, and it was Rachel who I saw, Rachel whose blood was pooling around my hand, Rachel who I had stabbed. I dropped the mirror fragment and tried to apologize, but the words couldn’t quite leave my throat. I couldn’t bring myself to explain, apologize, or even comfort her, but the light had left her eyes soon enough and I knew I was ready to give up.

Police found me later. Apparently, we had been missing for two days. I don’t remember much of the trial, honestly, but there was never any evidence of either of us being drugged up or anything. They called it a temporary psychotic episode brought on by panic. I was put here instead, and I spend every night trying to avoid sleeping so I don’t see Rachel’s eyes, staring back at me, begging me to help. The...The wasps were real, though, I remember being treated for them in the hospital later.

Thank you, Ms. Katherine. Have... Have a good day.

Click.

This has been a frustrating one to research. One would think a story with an online internet ad would lead to something. But no, Sasha hasn’t been able to track down any sort of Fear Factory, except for some Salt Lake City haunted house, but further research didn’t lead to any connections. There’s also a band, but there’s also no connections to anyone with the name Mara. Sasha was also able to finagle her way into old text records between Rachel and Peter, and got the address, near Oxford. Martin took a trip down to take a look at it but didn’t find anything. There was, in fact, an abandoned building, and it was, the site of the homicide of Rachel Tillvale, by Katherine Brown, according to police records. The odd part, however, is that Katherine was certain that she was taken to the sixth floor of the building, and that the fourth floor was her escape. Unless Martin has become wholly incapable at his job, which...is probably not the case, there are only three floors of that building. The weird part was the basement. Ms. Brown had mentioned something but couldn’t recall it. I understand why. In the basement of the building, there was a handful of adult teeth in the utility sink.

#tma #tma fanfic #magpod #magpod fanfic #the magnus institute #the magnus archives #this was literally based on a dream

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