#tma original statement

[thermodynamic-comedian]

i love that simon fairchild and mike crew have the exact same sense of humor, but simon's obviously way further into it than mike. mike will give you some tea and have a civil conversation with you, you really have to push him to get him to toss you into the vast. with simon, your fate is entirely dependant on how much fun he has talking to you. and they both think your fear is hilarious.

[cryptskeep]

ooo you wanna hear my written statement about my tma oc ooo you wanna hear it so bad

[statement-resumes]

Thank you to people who write/draw Jon wearing dresses/long skirts. You make the world go round

[frootbyethefoot]

thought about how fucked up it was that moreno was completely ready to kill courier 6 and (more notably) arcade if you don’t manage to convince him to fight with the ncr. and didn’t stop thinking.

[ID: three digital drawings of fallout: new vegas. the first drawing is of orion moreno sitting on a wooden chair, his expression is indiscernible. in the background, theres a small light brown bookshelf, a bed frame, and a mattress. there is smoke coming from morenos mouth. a small orange box of text next to him says “... smoking that god-awful pipe that left the wallpaper yellow and peeling.” the entire drawing is tinted in orange. the second drawing is of arcade gannon. he is drawn from around the waist up, and looks uncomfortable. he has his fist balled up and towards his chest. a purple text box to the right of him reads, “ i remember thinking he wasn’t content to just destroy himself.” the entire drawing is tinted in a purpleish pink color. the final drawing is of moreno in his enclave armor. he looks ready to fight, and is holding a gatling laser. the gatling laser is colored in only a bright red, and is already shooting out a laser. a red text box just above him reads, “ he seemed to have to take out everything with him.” the entire drawing is tinted in a dark red.]

[that-taters-my-tots]

Does ANYONE read original TMA statements or am I writing into the void?

[phynoma]

I'm gonna be honest, I'm probably going to post about this fic a lot because I spent 4 months putting it together and NOT ABLE TO SCREECH ABOUT IT

SO

You know how Jonny Sims and Alex Newell made the (very solid) decision to not include any explicit kissing sounds/particular types of trauma?

Have you ever thought "what if they did, tho?" Hang on that's not a good job explaining wait

SO

do you like angst? do you like monster!Jon? do you ever think "wow Jon went 0-60 on Martin by season 4, wish we had more build-up or a blatantly over-the-top excuse"

Read my pretentiously titled fic! It has multi-shipping! It has humor! It has surprising amounts of blood body horror! It has sex! It has romance! It has again, surprising amounts of teeth!

It has received rave reviews like "I read this in their voices!" And "oh my GOD" and "😳"

It's fully posted and complete, with gorgeous binding art!

[archivus]

MAG[REDACTED] - Dark Down Below

This is episode dedicated to fans of Agnes Montague, the Cult of the Lightless Flame or the People's Church of the Divine Host

Statement of Lisa Yordanka regarding her experience with a strange mattress. Original statement given 22nd of August 1998, recording by Arcturus Walker, head archivist of the Magnus Institute, Budapest. Put to tape on April 2nd 2024. Statement begins:

I know about the entities. And I know that you must know about them as well. The ten lords in the sky beyond controlling our fears, but there's only one to which's power I consented to: the Desolation. I never thought a daughter of The Blackened Earth would be haunted by The Forever Blind. But I guess dark and destruction, flame and ash and coal go hand in hand. I never thought of their faction as the enemy. I thought we had some kind of contract binding us until we rid our area of The Mother of Puppets. Assuming they were the ones that brought it upon me.

I'm a coward. I have been devout to Asag ever since it enlightened me to it all: the human race deserves not what it has. The only one to bring destruction to it all is my God and no one else's. I would sacrifice myself in its name and yet, I haven't. I want to say I just haven't had the chance to, but that'd be a lie. I am afraid to die. Even in light of the powers at my fingertips I cannot bring death upon my shell. Because wouldn't that mean giving myself up to Terminus? Wouldn't that just feed The Coming End That Waits For All? Will I stop lying to myself one day? I can't bring myself to do it. It's that simple.

Until the inevitable end comes when I'll finally unite with the one to light my fire I will put this body to the most use that I can for both IT and the cult. So then, how come The Dark set it's blind gaze upon me? Why did I become their target? I don't even know what it counts, maybe as- as an artefact? A monster that came for me? Did something *posess* my mattress while I was busy fighting for Agnes?

It was a cold night, I remember. I got the chance to be around the chosen one, for a week I was blessed by her presence and I soaked it up, I could feel it in my powers. But the apartment she and Jude shared didn't have a guest bedroom nor a third bed, but luckily someone from the cult had a spare mattress we brought over to accommodate those that wish to see messiah and bathe in her immediate divinity. I was not the first to sleep on it. But I was there at the wrong time.

See, we had a bit of a commotion with our siblings over at the people's church, some started a protest that this joint of powers is a downright sacrilege towards their "Mr. Pitch", that whilst our flame is lightless, the heat it emanates is reminiscent of the thing they hate the most. They argued that our burning is parallel to that of the Sun which they're so desperately trying to blacken and thus we were harmful to their sanctity.

Though we tried to keep Agnes's identity a secret, their most sensitive to the world beyond ours could feel her presence and the gossip carried the word quick and far. So their target was set on our dear messiah's back and that was something I simply I could not let happen. The physical aspect of the fight was lacking to say the least, the darkness works by disorientation not by direct combat, which is what the flame excels at.

Thankfully my blessed abilities include striking a spark into all that's electric and once the churchmen's frosty void surrounded us all I was able to flick all the broken bulbs lying around, those that they ritualistically destroyed into a flashbang for those who still perceived with their eyes. The rest also felt their power dissipate. The destruction of their ego, their fear of eradication almost made me want to get up close and personal with those who were first to open fire but there was no need, for they all turned their backs and my family from the cult urged me to leave them behind. That mercy was undeserved and it hurt.

That evening I had a hard time ridding my system of the pent up adrenaline. I took to some meditation with the members who were still there by the nightfall, but I still struggled to fall asleep. The mattress seemed too wavy and for long long hours I thought it was just my shocked perception playing tricks on my brain. But then I felt something slam into the middle of my spine, a shocking pain piercing through my skin like a round knife. It was like a heavy wooden door shutting, again and again and again. I tried to scream. I see well in the dark, my heat perception is impeccable yet I couldn't find a thing in my vicinity. The room seemed empty and after half a second the darkness seemed to wrap around my neck, flowing down my throat, muffling any sound I made. Then another spring etched into the nape of my neck, with a power that should've sprung my head up but something weighed me down on the needle bed that kept on prying into my body, spring by spring until I lost consciousness.

I don't even have to mention. It was dark. The most pitch black one couldn't see. This one had to be lived by a soul, as I was sure that was all I had now. My, at least what I believe to be my projected- body was glowing. I wasn't floating though. All around me was all encompassing darkness, yes, but I was laying in a swamp of some sort of viscous liquid that barely felt like it was even there. At first at least. I could barely touch it, the texture escaped my fingertips. That was until I felt a bump forming under my back from what, I now felt as a tiny swarm of particles, a dark sentient confetti. Thinking they were about to transport me I relaxed my body. How naive of me. Expecting to meet face to face with one of the gods from beyond? In my right mind I definitely wouldn't have thought myself worthy and I still not am. But I let go to see where the darkness takes me. Nowhere.

All of a sudden I experienced an ache of a thousand suns burrowing under my skin, the wounds were still obviously there from where the springs burst into me, and now they were being pried open once again by the mysterious creatures, bleeding me dry in the dreamscape of their master(s). I was numb. The pain made my brain forget where my muscles were positioned. I wouldn't be surprised if it was because of a spinal cord injury. For a moment it all seemed to cease but right after the calm my whole being began to spasm. I was experiencing a shock, a fit that I can't describe. I wasn't conscious all throughout though, I can tell you that much. After all my muscles startes vibrating uncontrollably, I lost myself.

And then awoke. My head throbbing like a bad hangover, I climbed over to the bathroom. I spare you the details, I was in a rather sorry state. I do not know who cursed me in the church and I do not care to find out. I want them all to pay, to burn among the flames they'll wish so desperately to not see. But my fire will burn through their blackened eyeholes and etch a flash in the deepest corners of the minds of even those that could never see. And I'll leave this statement to you and the ages to come, to note the day those wretched monsters dare lay their closed eyes upon our Agnes.

Statement ends. There are certainly a few interesting details to this statement so I'll go over them in order. First, Lisa only seems to know about 10 of the 15 entities, which may translate to the Cult of The Lightless Flame having the same, limited knowledge. This can be seen by the fact that miss Lisa's powers described here more closely resemble The Extinction's, rather than The Desolation's. It definitely gets me wondering how someone devout could be snatched from their entity's grasp. Maybe the Future Without Us was already within her when she first joined the cult?

Still baffles me how such a new power would dare mess with the subordinates of the burning destruction. Miss Lisa's fear and inability to sacrifice herself may come from The Extinction preventing her from becoming an avatar to the *wrong* entity, or it could just be a manifestation of its powers, just like her wishing death upon the entirety of the human race. I was also unaware that the two most active cults at the time, at least of those serving the entities, held such close ties, even if we just witnessed them getting severed...

Two days after giving this statement the apartment under the name of Lisa Yordanka caught fire, which is assumed to be electrical in nature, her kitchen appliances being the most likely source, and whilst cameras don't show her leaving, no body was found. Per my deductions this means she had completed her transformation into an avatar, though maybe not the one she wished to become. I wonder if the metal from the springs could've helped her body transform, like a crystallization chain reaction. Those born of The Terrible Change seem to enjoy their robotic bodies more than their organic ones, which they often experience as flesh-prisons. *sigh* I hope this fellow avatar finds it freeing as well and not as another bound to something she doesn't even know about. Wonder if she's ever going to figure it out. Recording ends.

Thanks for reading! I love how this turned out and actually written most of it before The Stranger's episode was done 😅. This episode is dedicated to The Dark and you can find the other ones here: The Flesh The Vast The Stranger

[americanoddysey]

chapter update! here he comes! the Bastard

[sombraluna]

Average Will Wood Listener

Ares Crow is a TMA oc who is part of the Usher Foundation Vermont universe and the A Series of Statements universe

[hunitweet]

Statement of Vera Crisostomo, regarding the disappearance of her friend while on vacation.

Link here Warnings: agoraphobia, disappearance of a friend, death of a friend, friends turning on each other, don't know how to put warnings

Word count: 1559

Lots of thanks to my beta reader: @bluehoursofmorning

Author's notes: this is my first published work, so please excuse me if I forgot a warning or if the writing is cringy ;-;. Anyway, please enjoy! :)

[polilyen]

he is so girlfailure! (he was created out of darkness!)

[thehellishtrinity]

remy! head archivist of the rex institute! he does in fact abuse his archivist powers and no one can get him in trouble for it. except maybe his boss.

[instituteslosttapes]

S̸̯̾̐t̴̗͂a̷͖̲̒t̵̯̹̕ê̴̡̟̅m̸̜̝͐̎ė̵́͜ͅn̷̙̰̔̕t̶̘̞͊̑ ̴̱͉͊#̸͕̊̕1̶̱͐0̴̢̼̿͗8̴̥̠̎7̴̧̜͌́6̶͉̉

Tw:

* bugs

* mention of abusive relationships

Statement of Alessio Giordano, regarding the death of their partner in the spring of 2001. Original statement given the 27th of October, 2001. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, head archivist of the Magnus institute London.

Statement begins

They’re my friends, you know. They’ve always been my friends. Whenever I’ve had a bad day, or even a good day, they’ve always been the ones I’ve talked to. They understand me better than anyone else. Better than therapists, my so-called friends, my family… even better than my partner David… but David could never understand me. He made it obvious he could never understand me, though I'm not sure how hard he tried. They understood me though, they didn’t even have to try. I talked to them about David a lot… They hated David. Who didn’t hate David though? He hurt me, they would never hurt me. They loved me.

Statement ends.

Upon investigation It appears as though Alessio Giordano did in fact have a partner named David, who disappeared in the spring of 2001, Alessio was questioned in his disappearance but was eventually released when the police officers working the case died…. Their bodies were found in the woods with their eyes and skin removed, supposedly eaten away by some sort of insect. We haven’t been able to contact or track down Alessio Giordano, and I’m not sure I want to…

Recording ends.

[libraryfag]

Statement of Basil Hallward regarding his portrait of one Dorian Gray

[phynoma]

HALLOWEEN COUNTDOWN

As a countdown to Halloween, I'm sharing the original statements I wrote for the Consuming AU! (<<click for ao3 link) The statements function as horror shorts that work on their own, and I'm proud of them, ngl

Without further ado:

Statement 1: The Chocolate Pot

CW: Manipulation, supernatural compulsion, accidental dead-naming, drowning

[Tape clicks on. Head Archivist’s Office]

ARCHIVIST

Statement of Corey Garrett, regarding his discovery of a vintage, silver chocolate pot. Original statement taken August 9th, 2007. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begins.

It was an estate auction that did it.

My cousin, Niamh Flaherty and I, would get out of mum's house by taking our bikes up and down Elvendon Lane. There aren't a lot of turnoffs, and it's one of those narrow, country lanes that seems like it keeps its own secrets. We were lonely, in the way that two young adults in the countryside could be: on the edge of adulthood and the fears of being cast into the unknown, even as we longed for it with all our fledgling desire for flight.

It was the end of summer, and Niamh was visiting from Limerick, and we were terribly bored with country life. Just eighteen, the both of us, and playing at being proper adults. Independant, all that. Both of us had a thing for antiques–though I’ve lost a bit of my taste for it, now–and we were incorrigibly curious.

There's not much that goes on around Woodcote that the whole village doesn't know about, so when Niamh and I saw the lorry at the end of a short drive, nearly blocking the narrow road into town, we stopped. The drive itself was far too small for the mini tipper to navigate; just a blind opening to a gravel track so overgrown it could have just been a path into the woods that would end, like a fairy-path, with no house or sign of humanity in sight.

My parents had moved out to the village when I was at school, and I didn’t know whose house it was that had attracted the house clearance auctioneers like flies to a decaying corpse. All I knew was folks that needed seven tonne lorries were likely old and rich, and that sounded like a magic combination. A proper treasure hunt, you know?

Maybe it was a bit ghoulish, but the idea of a dusty, mouldering house of forgotten and unwanted treasures really got to us–Niamh and me. Like I said, Niamh and I were still pretty young, but I was always impressed with her. She seemed sort of worldly, always got men's attention. She wasn't that pretty, I don't think–well, I mean, I don't know. I'm her cousin, aren't I? But she had a way about her, something that drew people in. I could never figure out if I was jealous of her or if I wanted to be her.

Anyway, watching strangers pack up a lorry with some old, unlucky geezer's worldly treasures might not seem like a good time, but we made the most of it. We made guesses of what was in the boxes, what kind of person they'd been, why they didn't have any family to collect the goods. It was an “adult” kind of fun, nothing kids would be interested in, but now that Niamh and I were grown up we could watch the delivery men carting boxes and furniture down the dusty drive and feel like we were gossiping like real people, real adults did. We were so hungry for a world beyond us.

And there was plenty to gossip about. Crates of old knickknacks and rubbish– porcelain table sets shaped like too-quaint dolls, ratty old tapestries from the 70’s made to look mediaeval and missing the mark– that sort of thing. We sat on our bikes across the lane and kept our eyes peeled for the priceless artefacts we knew we’d spot among all the junk. With our keen, young minds we had a plan that if we did see anything, we’d be the first down at the auction houses and charity shops in Reading to snatch it up. Ghoulish, like I said. But at the time we felt very clever and sophisticated as we guessed at values and made crude but cutting remarks.

We could see a bit of the house from the road–disappointingly normal, all told. Renovated maybe in the mid-90s, one of those monstrosities that was probably a fine thing when it was built two centuries ago and which had been “upgraded” nearly out of existence. We were guessing at how terribly the inside had been refurbished when a woman wearing a cream suit left the front door. For a moment, I could have sworn she looked right at us, down by the road. And she smiled. I don't know how, but I could feel it, like an itch behind my teeth. Then she turned and disappeared behind the hedges and fruit trees that blocked most of the house.

I shook off the shudder that half-imagined smile had given me, and put her from my mind. In any case, Niamh hadn’t seemed to notice the woman. I’d have almost thought I’d made her up, except after a good ten or fifteen minutes she appeared again at the bottom of the lane. She must have walked all the way down, and her cream suit was coated in a fine layer of dust. She held a small crate in her hands.

I don’t know how, but I knew that crate was full of the treasures Niamh and I were waiting to see. I tried to be subtle watching her, but Niamh and I were the only ones on a long, lonely lane, so it was pretty obvious we were gawking. I expected an annoyed glance, maybe, or for the woman to shoo us off. Instead, she looked up. Our eyes met, and I got that weird feeling again, like she was…amused, somehow. It turnt my stomach right over.

I didn’t notice that Niamh had grabbed my arm until later, when I saw the bruises, because I was so focused on that woman. She walked over to us with that little half-smile, the crate still in her arms. She said her name was…I think it was Karen? Karen…something common, I think, but like an old man name. Withers, maybe.

Anyway, she came right up to the both of us and asked if we had known the owner of the house. I don’t remember what we said–if we lied and claimed we did, or what. The answer didn’t really seem to matter. She said the owner had been old and eccentric, and he hadn’t had anyone to leave his belongings to, so they’d been called in. Hope Charities, she said, and pointed at the lorry. There wasn't a name painted on it or anything, but the men doing the loading were wearing white coveralls with B&H on the back. Don't know what the "B" stood for.

She– Karen– showed us the crate. It was open. Inside was a jumble of knick-knacks, exactly the kind of thing you’d expect: a couple of old books with faded dust covers from the 50s or 60s, some miscellaneous silverware, a snowglobe that was nearly opaque from the dissolved snow, a single Skittles pin.

She said it was a box of the things they didn’t think would sell, and offered to let us take anything we’d like. She smiled when she said it, and the smile didn’t match her eyes. Even though it’d been what we were hoping for, I was suddenly uneasy. It didn’t feel like we could say no. I wanted, desperately, to say no. I think I hoped Niamh would do it for me.

Niamh took a book–at random, I think–and I picked up a tarnished chocolate pot. I had half a mind that I could give it to my mum as a birthday gift, with a bit of polish. Karen nodded like I’d made a good choice and gave me one more of those little half-smiles. It reminded me of a crocodile, somehow.

“Enjoy,” she said, and brought the crate back to the lorry to be packed away.

Niamh and I went home after that. There wasn’t much more for us to do, really. We laughed about it, about how we thought we’d been in trouble. Niamh said I must have charmed her with my wicked good looks–but Niamh was always the charmer, and she didn’t seem to realise I didn’t have her way with people.

She showed me her book. It looked like it’d been a library book at some point, and the dust cover was a bit torn. It had one of those generic, oil-painted landscapes as the cover art, of a circle of grey-green mountains with a blue-grey sky behind. It was called A Very Windy Day, and I didn’t know what possessed Niamh to choose that over everything else in the crate. When I asked her, she shrugged and said it reminded her of something.

In the end, I was rather proud of my chocolate pot, and I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to shine it up with some of my mum’s old Wright’s jewellery cleaner. Niamh settled down with her book–I don’t know if she was actually that interested in it, but after my teasing she made a point of reading it in front of me. She even read a bit out loud–something about big spaces and the ever-expanding entropy of the universe. It was way more dry than I expected, and it made me feel sort of funny and small, so I told her to read to herself.

The chocolate pot shined up nicely, though it took a good deal of time. By the time I looked around to ask Niamh something, she had left with her book–probably to get away from the smell of the cleaner. I was a little miffed that she hadn’t said anything to me; but then again, I had been rather focused.

I cleaned the inside of the pot, and noticed that it was in good shape but had some strange scratches on the inside, like someone had gone in with a wire scrubber at some point in the past. The scratches weren’t deep enough that I was concerned it would be unsafe to drink from, and I resolved to make some tea in it, just to try it out.

I steeped a few bags of breakfast tea directly in the pot itself–after all, if the thing was to be used for brewing chocolate, it shouldn’t have any sort of flavour itself, and there was no point in putting hot water from the kettle into the pot and then pouring it over bags from there. But when I poured the tea into my cup, it was almost black, and thick as mud. It had a strong, earthy aroma that wasn’t unpleasant– a bit like a very strong, very unsweetened cocoa.

This was rather off-putting, but I figured to myself that perhaps I hadn’t cleaned the inside of the pot as much as I’d thought, and the hot water had now cleared it out. The vaguely-chocolate-like scent could be from years of accumulated grime, for all I knew. I poured out the rest, washed out the remainder, and tried again.

The second steeping, the stuff was a little thinner, and the aroma thick but sweeter. Perhaps, I thought, the boiling water was doing its job to scrape out the inside of the pot. I poured it out again and resteeped it a third time. This time, the liquid was a warm, golden brown, like a well-sweetened and milky cocoa mixed with cinnamon or turmeric. It smelled mouthwatering.

I realised, belatedly, that I hadn’t added the teabags at all, and couldn’t help but wonder if that had been the reason for the odd black sludge the first time. Whatever the reason, the fact was now that this chocolate pot was a more exciting find than I could have ever hoped for in my attempted grown-up adventure-seeking. I allowed myself a bit of childish delight, that I had something truly special.

Of course, I wasn’t a fool– I wasn’t about to start serving this mysteriously appearing chocolate to my family without some more research. I did some internet research and found very little in the way of magical chocolate pots or cursed items. There was absolutely no record of regular chocolate pots creating chocolate from hot water, although there was plenty about cast iron and other sorts of well-seasoned kitchenware, and some tales of Chinese clay teapots being used for so long that one only had to pour in hot water to get tea.

This seemed unlikely for my silver pot, but I clung to the idea that there was at least some reasonable explanation. I would have even taken a reasonable supernatural explanation–anything that meant I wasn’t simply going mad. And, just in case I was somehow hallucinating the sight and smell of the chocolate, I figured a few other senses were necessary.

For some reason, it was very important to me that I was alone. The childish feeling was stronger; that I had something special, something precious, like a stuffed animal worn to an inch of its life. I wanted to test the chocolate pot in privacy, in a little tent of my own making, someplace dim and close and warm. I imagined sharing chocolate with Niamh like we had as children in a fort made of cushions and blankets, our small hands wrapped around second-best china, in a small, dark world of our own. Safe. Intimate.

I locked myself in the bathroom and climbed in the tub, pulling the curtain around me in as much of an approximation of a fort as I'd allow myself. I poured myself a new cup of chocolate and dipped my finger into the liquid. It was pleasantly warm, not boiling, and thick and silky smooth. I rubbed it between my fingers, marvelling at it, and then without thinking I licked it from my fingers.

It was delicious, just as rich and sweet and full as it smelled. Emboldened, I took a sip directly from the cup. Flavour exploded over my tongue, rich and complex and very clearly chocolate. I finished the cup within minutes and poured another. I was starting to rethink my idea to gift the chocolate pot to my mother, when I could just as easily share its contents with her but keep the pot to myself.

I refilled the pot only once with more water–which I got straight from the bath tap– and looking back, that should have been an alarming sign. At the time, I was simply amazed at how the flavours seemed to change with every cup, perfectly setting off the previous so that each was distinct. It was impossible to tire of, and it seemed to spread through my stomach and then my whole torso and limbs like a good scotch.

I was feeling pleasantly warm and buzzing when Niamh returned. Again, I didn’t hear her come in through the door, but she was suddenly there, in front of me, asking what I was doing. I hesitated, wondering if she would want a cup. Dare I share my magic? Of course, I decided, with a warm, happy surge of devotion. How wonderful, to share in the chocolate pot! How lovely, to be embraced together in such a remarkable creation! It occurred to me that everyone was deserving of such a gift. Perhaps I could sell it. Even better, I could give it away. I could open my home to any and all and share this incredible, magical drink that tasted like the very essence of comfort!

But first, I wanted to share it with Niamh. I wanted to capture a bit of that childhood we'd been so fierce in pushing away. I invited her into the tub with me, my sanctum, my fortress.

It was then that I noticed how distant Niamh's eyes were–as if she were in the room with me, but not. I felt as if she were looking at me from the other end of a very long tunnel, like a mineshaft. She stood in a square of light, while I crouched safe and warm and hidden in the dark. It pressed around me. It was deep, fathomless, but the pressure was comforting. It was the darkness of the womb, of a mother's arms who would never grow too frail, would never turn away. There was no need to fear growing old, there. It was a place where we could huddle in the dark and drink chocolate and always be children.

By this point, it felt as if the chocolate was in my very blood. Its thickness coated the inside of my oesophagus, my mouth. In a slurring, muffled voice, I offered my cousin a cup of the magical liquor. She refused, her eyes still empty.

I felt a surge of despair that she should be so far from me, when all I longed for was closeness. I took Niamh's hand, and when she tried to pull away with a cry of anger, I simply wrapped my arms around her instead.

For a moment, it felt as if I were holding a thousand stars in my embrace–or a million dandelion seeds, about to be blown away by a breath of wind. Niamh wiggled in my embrace and then, all of a sudden, slumped against me. As I hadn’t anticipated this, I could only lower her as slowly as I possibly could to the ground, where she lay curled and sobbing. Her face was a mask of fear and anguish. She draped over the tub, spilling the pot over. Dark liquid poured from it, thick and endless, clogging in the drain and slowly rising.

I righted the pot and handed her a cup of chocolate. This batch was dark as a moonless night and it smelled bitter and woody, but it was still obviously chocolate. When Niamh trembled so much that she would spill it, I helped tip it into her mouth.

At once she became still and quiet. Her eyes were wide and very dark, and she stared at me as if she had seen unknowable horrors.

I drank the rest of the cup, as she seemed uninclined to finish it, and felt the bitterness prick through me like deadly nightshade. My head swam. For a moment, I was drowning. My mouth was filled with thick nectar, and it ran down my front in muddy rivers. My eyesight blurred.

For some reason, my only thought was that I had something in my throat, and that the solution was clearly to wash it out with more chocolate. I poured another cup with shaking hands and slipping gaze, and when I spilled it I simply raised the chocolate pot and poured the sweet liquid directly into my mouth.

There was no end to the flowing chocolate, and for a moment I had a vision of the chocolate continuing to pour, and pour, until it flooded the room and down the street. I imagined the faces of the village as they saw the approaching wave, surprised and then delighted. I pictured them licking their hands like I had, or scooping up teacups full of the stuff to fill their own, hollow bodies. Like a children's story, a fairytale. All was innocent and sweet again, simple. I could save the world with my chocolate pot. All I had to do was keep pouring.

I could imagine how it would sit in us like ballast, thick and choking and so full that no one would ever have to feel loneliness again. To be embraced, inside and out, in thick, sweet nourishment. It was horrible. I had never imagined anything better, or worse. If I’d had any air left in my lungs, if the chocolate wasn’t already pouring from my mouth in an endless fountain, I would have screamed and not stopped. I sobbed, for the fear that I might never reach the beautiful image in my head, the promise of an endless, close embrace.

I felt arms around me, and then Niamh was trying to force the stuff from my stomach, my lungs. I coughed and choked and only managed to let more of the chocolate fill in the last bits of air I had. I was drowning in it. No, that's not right–it was swallowing me. I lay back in the tub that was slowly filling with chocolate and knew it would be my tomb.

I saw, rather than felt, Niamh’s hands pound against my chest. The tub could be our tomb, if only Niamh would join me. I tried to grasp her hand, to pull her into the warmth with me, but the chocolate coating my hands was too slick and she pulled away.

I wailed for her. My consciousness slipped. I was sinking into a deep, black pit of primordial warmth, and I knew I would never escape.

Except…well, I did, didn’t I? I’m still not completely sure how. I think Niamh did it, somehow.

I woke in my bed, with a horrible pressure headache, and Niamh at my side. I could have sworn, in the moments before I woke, that I heard her reading aloud to me–though I can’t recall the story, I do have a vague memory of her setting aside that little hardcover book she’d taken from the crate when I woke.

She explained that I had fallen asleep in the bath, of all places, and nearly drowned. I asked about the chocolate pot, and she seemed confused for a moment. I reminded her about the house, and the crate, and her eyes lit up. She brought to me a small, silver teapot and claimed that this was the thing I had chosen.

I was so tired that I hadn’t the energy to argue with her, and simply decided to ask about it more when I woke again. By the time I did, I could hardly recall what the original chocolate pot had looked like, and I couldn’t truly confirm whether or not the teapot she showed me was the one I had taken from the crate.

Niamh left at the end of that summer, and besides a few emails, we’ve mostly lost touch. It’s too bad, because we were very close once and I have a strange feeling that something that happened that summer contributed to her distance. She moved to Switzerland, I think, to be a ski instructor.

I gifted the silver teapot to my mum after all. She adores it, and it makes very good tea. But sometimes, whenever I’m drinking something, I get a thick, sweet taste on the back of my tongue like the finest of chocolate.

Statement ends.

ARCHIVIST (CONT.)

If I’d read this a year ago, I’d have dismissed it out of hand. It's exactly the kind of urban legend I'd expect would flood the shelves. But perhaps The Magnus Institute is a far less interesting or gratifying audience for such creators of tall tales than the usual, hungry internet forums.

(sigh) Nevertheless, there are a few details of note.

[Paper flips]

ARCHIVIST (CONT.)

(clears throat) Hm, excuse me, it seems that–Cora Garrett has not suffered any long term effects from her experience.

(to self) Note to self, re-record the intro of the statement using the correct name and pronouns.

(aloud) From the preliminary follow-up, it seems like Cora spent a few days in the hospital to get rid of what appeared to be a sudden case of pneumonia. No police report was ever filed, and we've had difficulty tracking down any relations to the original owners of 15 Elvendon Lane, assuming that number 15 was, indeed, the correct house. It was certainly the only house on auction around the correct time. It seems to have been renovated by the new owners, and there are no pictures online of the original house to try and match to Cora's description.

Karen Withers, or Smithers, or whatever her name might be-- the auction agent-- does not seem to exist–either in the Reading area or beyond. I am exceedingly curious to know who and what she is, or if she even exists. For all we know, she could be an invention of Cora and her cousin to explain away an adolescent break-in, or a hallucination like that of a (heavy sigh, dry) overflowing chocolate pot.

The most interesting piece of this statement, to me, is of course the reference to A Very Windy Day. The details are vague, but it could very well be a Leitner, and if that's the case I–

[Door opens]

ARCHIVIST (CONT.)

Ah. Martin.

[archivus]

MAG[REDACTED] - Lights out in the Circus

Statement of Frank Gabriel regarding his development of a fear of heights. Original statement given January 3rd, 2018. Recording by Arcturus Walker, head archivist of the Magnus Institute, Budapest. Put to tape March 25th, 2024. Statement begins:

The stage is my life, or better yet, my life was flying above the stage. Throughout the different phases of my life I always wanted to perform, so now working for the national circus is a dream come true. Was a dream come true.

It all started months ago, I don't know exactly when, but I started having a recurring dream. The dream consisted of a simple jump high up on the rope, maybe a meter or two across, where I reach for the trapeze I'm supposed to grab but it isn't there. It's not like I'm jumping into thin air, I see the rod clearly. I know my limits and the jump is possible, but I hold out for it and it seemingly jumps out of my reach. And then I fall. I fall and I keep falling way below the ground. I sometimes wake up mid fall. Sometimes only when it feels like I'll hit something. But it always just feels like it. I'm falling into a dark abyss, my stomach in a knot and I can't *see* the end.

I normally don't mind the feeling of freefall, I feel like if I found it unpleasant that would be a serious drawback in my line of work. I quite enjoy falling on the practice trampoline, the mat or the safety net if it's part of the performance. Sure, when it's unexpected it's not the nicest, but I also know nothing will come of it. But the feeling in my dreams is akin to anxiety. I *feel* something coming, that recognizable sense of impending doom hits me. I'm jumping to my death and I can feel it. I am falling towards my end in the infinity before I'm jerked awake. And it kept happening, again and again every night. First I woke up properly, then it just turned into a transition from REM cycle to REM cycle, dream to dream, but the dream was always the same.

It didn't affect me at first. The dreams, at least, I could definitely feel the effects of the lack of sleep taking a toll on me. But we only had a few weeks left of the season, so I soldiered through somehow. But off season I was stuck inside, with nothing to take my mind off of my strange dreams I relived them whenever my brain had any spare time. Which was admittedly a lot. I found myself starting to be terrified of the idea of climbing the platform, afraid that the trapeze will escape my grasp for real this time. The idea of the safety net didn't help either...

Every tuesday and friday the circus was open, each performer could go practice as they felt like. Last year I went every week, but this time I found myself avoiding it. I still went the first few times but then I started to hit the snooze and stay in. Still did my daily stretches though, but I don't have access to heights at home, of course.

So when I couldn't procrastinate further and had to climb the pole I was nervous, shaking a bit. Rationally I know nothing could happen, I was there when the safety net was fastened and I know very well that it was just a trampoline, but when does rationalizing our fears ever actually resolve them? I so wish it did. Deep down I was glad I was alone, no one saw my hesitation. No one could, except for the guy responsible for lighting, but he wasn't looking my way. Not yet. I haven't paid much attention to him before, but I noticed the lights were different during the shows, not bad, but noticably cooler toned.

He was a new hire, average height which made him look small among the acrobats, wore his dark hair in a half-up, his general style is as you would expect from someone that works the mixer. Hearsay said he took it up as a gig and will be gone soon.

Not soon enough. I was up on the platform, slapping my palms into the chalk, my sweat mixing into a sticky goo with the powder, I grabbed onto my trapeze and just hung there a for a bit and started swaying. I synced with the rythm of the lights blinking above me. I did my practice routine on a single handle, no jumps yet. Once it felt awkward to procrastinate any further I swung out and let go, reaching for the stationary handle as I noticed something in my peripherals.

The lights were on at the mixer booth and I could clearly see a figure watching me. The desk is off to the side, but he was facing the glass head on this time, towards my direction. As I could predict it my hands couldn't even touch the trapeze as I began my freefall at once, this time for real.

I had my back down, I closed my eyes bracing for the soft impact on the safety net that never came. I tumbled towards nothingness again, reopening my eyes to complete darkness. The air suddenly smelled fresh and a bit like ozone, as much as the pressure let me breathe and it was cold against my face, even past what the velocity would cause. I kept on falling for what felt like an eternity. I was turning my body, figuring out how it was most comfortable. I kind of just accepted my faith, not expecting it to end anytime soon when it did, suddenly and all at once. I got that distinct feeling that always woke me up before, but I didn't hit the ground. I came to my senses the moment before letting go of my trapeze, without time to react my body took on the pose I had tumbling down the abyss and I found myself sat on the net underneath, the shock of "hitting the ground" still weighing heavily on my chest.

I looked over to the mixer booth too late. The new hire wasn't in the room anymore. The stage was dark. I rest my head on the net for one deep inhale and climbed off. I packed my stuff and headed home.

I didn't go back again. I liked the circus a lot but I knew I couldn't continue what I did before. I collected my paycheck at the start of the new season and asked if I could take a break, maybe work a role that didn't involve heights. Their response was a dismissal.

Statement ends.

It's not often that I don't have to run statements through the team nor do a follow up, but this one needs no explanation to me. I worked a gig doing lighting for the national circus at the time. And I also know that the performers gossiped about me. My brother told me. Like that matters. I didn't have anything against Frank specifically, he was at the wrong place at the wrong time. Alone. As a freshly hatched avatar I needed people to test my powers on and who could be better than those trained at freefall? Those working with heights? And those that enjoy it? I didn't mean to traumatize this poor man no less get him fired.

Guess that's in the past now. I searched him up, but no new workplace was listed on any of his social platforms. Wish I could feel remorse, but I sold my soul to the entity of insignificance so, guess that won't change. He was a good test subject though, I enjoyed his dreams.

Statement ends.

If you enjoyed, you can check out the other episodes here:

The Flesh The Stranger The Dark

@transbot-brian, @theseuscloud, @cult-of-the-eye thanks for the nice comments on my previous post! Future episodes will be posted over on this account, hope you enjoyed