#tma statements

[shhhimnothereiswear]

DO YOU WANT SOME IDEAS FOR FAN WRITTEN TMA STATEMENTS?? OF COURSE YOU DO.

A dentist with an unnerving love for teeth (unsure)

Cannibalism as love trope thing??? (The Slaughter)

Something to do with insence starting to smell of blood(?) (The Slaughter/Hunt?)

A child obsessed with Monsters Inc. getting taken by the Spiral (bonus points for writing it from the perspective of the child grown up)

A performer who pretends that their audience isn't there to cope with stage fright until they aren't (The Lonely)

A statement from a minimalist (The Lonely/Vast

Something about someone who bites their fingernails, but they just don't stop and eat more and more of themselves (unsure)

Someone who has those glow in the dark stars on their ceiling, but they just go out (The Dark)

Someone who owns venus "fly" traps (The Flesh)

Someone who gets lost in the maze of IKEA (The Spiral)

What's worse than finding a worm in your apple?? Thousands.

If you use any of these, tag me so I can read them! :3

[i-bite-a-shit-ton-of-people]

Statement of Stephanie Bunny Darling XOXO regarding her supernatural sightings. Original statement given on Tiktok in 8 short videos.Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, head archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begins.

Let me spill the tea, gurls.

[cult-of-the-eye]

Statements I would absolutely love to see:

Person has grudge on inanimate object. This takes over their life.

Itching

My house hates me oh god oh god

My computer is fucking BLEEDING

I keep causing people's deaths and I don't know why I swear it's accidental

Trapeze artist dies falling from the trapeze over and over again

Teeth

[radioactive-yuri]

sun-themed vast avatar.

statement about someone who tried to paint the sun, but kept making it bigger and bigger, always unhappy with how small it was. eventually they finished the project, and it was just a tiny, tiny speck on the canvas. the statement giver asked them why it was so small. they said "oh, it's not small at all. you're just very, very far away." and when the statement giver looked back at the painting, the speck started growing, getting bigger and bigger, and the statement giver felt like they were falling into the painting. eventually it stopped. the painter was visible next to them again, and they merely whispered "really puts things into perspective, doesn't it?"

[trenchcoathunnybee08]

Do you think anyone ever tried to play Uno with Nathaniel Thorp / The Reaper from episode 29 of TMA? What about Lotteria/mexican bingo ?

[unfairlyfallen]

Some of you were asking for a puzzle Statement, but that really isn't a Statement-worthy experience. This, however, might be.

(CW: Insects, dead insects, rancid vibes)

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I have a crippling fear of praying mantis...

That isn't to say that I 'dislike' them, I can actually appreciate a lot about the praying mantis, in the way of a general respect for nature and their objective cool factor. 

In theory, as an artist, I should be delighted by the sight of such a graceful and well executed design. 

As a casual bug enjoyer (understandably excluding ants and earwigs,) a delicate and inoffensive insect like this one shouldn't phase me at all. 

It certainly didn't used to. 

When I was nine years old, my family and I were in the process of settling into our first real house. It was small, and the epitome of ‘bare bones,’ but between my father's expertise in carpentry and the affordable price, the place was well worth the investment. 

I believe it was within the first year of living in this house that the inciting event occurred.

-It must have been, because I vividly remember my family using the four wheel trailer, which we had spent much of my early life in, as temporary storage. 

We kept the majority of our non essential items packed away in there, but easily accessible, for while the main house was being renovated. That helped to reduce clutter that could potentially get in my father's way. 

This information about layout and function is relevant because, on the night of the event, I had left the main house to go retrieve a scrap of fabric from one of the storage totes in the trailer. 

Although I've never been a huge fan of walking outside at night, our distance from any large city almost always allowed for clear skies with the moon and stars cutting easily through the heavy rural darkness. 

On this specific night, I wasn't too worried about the dark, or what might be stalking me from within it. I was single mindedly focused on finding the material I needed for my most recent project, and was attempting to recall where within the trailer it might have been placed.

I found the piece quickly. 

I remember thinking in the moment how ‘fortunate it was that the top hadn't even been on the storage container,’ rendering the bright fabrics easily identifiable, even from the doorway. 

I snatched up the scrap I needed without a second glance, or, truthfully, without even a ‘thorough’ first glance.

An oversight that could have prevented every stomach churning moment that followed. 

As I got to the front door of the main house, I reached out for the handle with the same hand I carried my fabric in, and squeezed…

Something bit me, hard.

Assuming it was a spider and beginning to panic, instinct took over and I violently struck my hand against my leg.

What fell to the floor of the now open entryway WAS NOT a spider…

In fact, it wasn't even a ‘whole’ praying mantis. Just the long, twitching body of one. 

Horrified and shaking, I barely had the wherewithal to register the fact that there had once been a head, a head which was clearly no longer connected to its spindly, open neck,

-before I felt another sharp pinch to the meat of my palm.

I turned my hand to see the mantis’ head still firmly attached by its mandibles, which were buried in my skin as deep as it could manage. 

It wasn't just attached though,

the head was MOVING, in that horrifying false-life that some insects cling to even after being taken apart. I watched as its eyes shifted their focus senselessly, and its vile little alien mouth continued to open and shut, biting me, defending itself against a threat, even once there was no life left to protect. 

I screamed, and tears began to spill, but I have always prided myself on my ability to do what is rational in times of extreme fear and stress. So while my brain shut down in disgust and terror, my trembling body moved to gently pry the “living” head from my hand.

I got what felt like a decent grip on it with two fingers, and in the first millisecond of my attempt at extraction, the mandibles loosened noticeably. My hold slipped a little on the surface of its smooth, waxy face, and my fingers tightened just a fraction to maintain my grasp. 

I would have only needed one more careful tug to pluck it free-

And just then the eyes ‘popped.’

The fluid filled orbs caved in with a small *crunch*, and spewed their clear liquid across both of my hands.

Only after that, did the thing finally stop moving. 

The mandibles released, and the praying mantis was dead. 

The only way I can think to explain how THOROUGHLY traumatized I was by all of this, is to inform you that my father held me in his lap while my body convulsed and vibrated in silent horror, for nearly ten minutes. 

My father is not a kind or caring man, he had never even ‘comforted’ me before this event took place. 

That was the first and last time I have ever seen him look truly “sorry" for me.

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Statement ends.

[geck-motj]

pov a statement giver comes into the institute

jon: we have over 1000 traumas to feast upon! 🧇

[nayeliq1]

"Where did you get that?"

Martin stares at it with wide eyes, setting the tea down quite unsteadily.

"Uhm." Jon looks at him, puzzled. "I don't think I...got it anywhere", he says. "It was here, in my office. I assumed you or- well, someone brought it in for me to record. Why?"

Martin swears under his breath.

"That's not-" Martin adjusts his glasses with a flustered motion. "That wasn't supposed to- You weren't supposed to have that."

"What do you mean?"

He takes the tea Martin set down on his desk, taking a sip. It's perfect. Just the way he likes it. Of course it is. It always is when Martin makes it- though Jon can't remember ever actually having told Martin how he takes his tea.

He waits for Martin to answer, but he just stands there with his eyes flitting around the room, lips pressed tight as his hands worry at the seam of his cardigan.

"Martin?" Jon sets the cup down. "It's a Statement. I'm the Archivist. What do you mean I'm not supposed to have it?"

~oOo~

Or, the one where Jon finds a Statement in his office, and it makes some long-held feelings surface, and some long-overdue conversations finally take place.

Status: Ongoing

Words: currently 12k

Rating: M for canon-typical horror elements

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66075598/chapters/170278147#workskin

[factual-entropy]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64994476

or: Peter Spankoffski makes a statement!

My first non-collab fic is out, and it's a crossover to appease my TMA-loving nerd friends.

[bogus-cowboy-yeehaw]

Turned one of my biggest fears into a statement, enjoy!

Statement of.. Bogus cowboy? Regarding his weird relationship with food...

Statement begins.

I've always been anxious and always kept things to myself. When I was four I had an allergy test which turned out to be mostly negative. Except for mold. It wasn't a severe allergy, no, rather something that wouldn't even harm me. But I didn't know that. A few weeks later I watched a show with my granpa. They talked about how your throat can close after you eat something you're allergic to. That freaked me out so much! I became obsessed with checking expiration dates, smelling food and carefully inspecting it to make sure it wasn't moldy. While it definitely wasn't healthy, I can at least tell if food's gone bad just by looking at it. Mostly. While my obsession grew fainter, it's still in the back of my mind. Okay, no, I'm terrified of eating something rotten or molded. Just trying camembert made me panic. Anyway, what I'm here for is.. Something that happened recently. And is still happening... Ehh... It started innocent, a few molded berries in a mix, my milk spoiling before its expiration date... Nothing that really concerned me, though I was angry I had to throw away so much food! But a week ago... While eating a sandwich I noticed that my bread had a blue spot on it. I immediately rushed to the bathroom and... You know... I won't get into detail. I decided to skip breakfast and buy something on my way. I got some baked goods from the local bakery, the one I trusted the most. But when I looked into the bag... That blue color... I rushed back to that bakery and asked if they could replace it, which they did. I apologized for the trouble and left them another tip. At school again. That fucking blue color. And the smell... It was even worse! I threw it into the trash and my classmate shared his sandwich with me. When I bit into it that mushroomish taste hit my tongue. I spit it up and blamed it on not liking cheese. Then I watched as he ate his half of the sandwich. It was perfectly fine... I thought that maybe, just maybe, he wanted to poison me. But no, there were more and more situations like that. I. Can't. Take it. Anymore. I haven't eaten anything in a week. The more it keeps happening the more severe it gets... Now any food I touch simply... Rots. I'm so hungry. Even water I drink tastes stale.

Statement ends.

[dust-bunny-meow]

Id love if someone who can write took inspo from this lol. Ive considered tryin to make a tma style statement (prob 4 the lonely) on the subject but i cant write to save my life

I work at a McDonald's rn, and like obviously keepin the store stocked is important. I work frys if im not on window, so i have to go back to the walk in freezer a good amount.

If you've ever been in one of those, especially on 1st or 2nd shift it is terrifying. Like, the store is pretty loud, and the fridge b4 it has a fan thing that makes a loud noise then u walk into the freezer and its fuckin silent. Like it feels like muted the rest of the world bc of all of the insulation in those things.

I sometimes go in and think how scary it would be to walk in to restock frys and walk out and everyone be fuckin gone. Like think lunch rush, you run in to grab a box to refill the hopper and there is no beeping. No car engines. No buzz of the soda shit in back. No voices from lobby. Nothing.

[gking10]

Rigor Mortis

(CW: Thoughts of death, Insomnia, self-loathing, excessive drinking)

There are only a scant few people in the park and yet everyone is staring at Jon. Everything is staring at him. A million eyes gaze upon him, their irises so hot they bore holes through his flesh and cauterize the wounds. Static scraps against his skull like a rusty scalpel and his stomach, though full, feels empty. So sickeningly empty. Out of an abandoned habit, he reaches into his pocket for a cigarette. There’s nothing there.

Jon feels himself start to sweat. The Ceaseless Watcher screams at him that every single person he walks past knows exactly what he is and they hate him for it. As they rightfully should. He is a monster. And no matter how many times he throws himself into the fire and tries to save others, Jonathan Sims will always be a monster. He isn’t even sure why he came here. He doesn’t want to be here. He shouldn’t be here. He is an ant under a magnifying glass and he is burning. He needs to leave, he needs to run, he needs to-

His eyes lock onto a man. He’s of average build, early thirties, with well-groomed brown hair. His oversized brown suit hangs over his body as he stands next to an empty bench. Despite how dressed he is, the man’s face seems to be in a permanent state of restlessness and exhaustion. The pale-skinned man stares forward, but whether he is staring at something is unclear. Large headphones cling to his head, blaring rock music so loud it can be heard meters away. The man does not sit. He stands, stares off into nothingness, and listens to his music. He intermittently stretches and moves random parts of his body. But his chest does not rise or fall once. His glassy eyes do not blink even once.

The static whispers something. End. The Archivist approaches the man and touches his shoulder. Pulling off his headphones and turning down his music, the man meets the Archivist’s hungry gaze. The man’s voice is unbothered, yet listless. “What is it?”

The Archivist smiles. He feels the millions of eyes, the magnifying glass, move its focus to a new target. He says his well-rehearsed lines, no longer able to tell if the words or simply routine or if he is dutifully praying over a graciously gifted meal. “Hello. I’m Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute. I would like you to give me your statement.” “...Okay.” The man says after a pause. He shows much less apprehension than most do in his situation. “Do you mind if I listen to music while I do, because-” “I would like you to give me your statement.”

The tired man finds himself stepping in front of the bench and taking a seat. His eyes widen and begin to frantically dart around. The ant looks for an exit while the Archivist calmly sits down right next to him, never breaking eye contact. “I- I don’t- Do we really need to sit? I-”

The Archivist grins wide. His teeth are eyes. His mouth is eyes. His face is eyes. He is eyes and now the roaring static is so blissfully quiet because its claws are scratching at someone else’s brain. “Statement of Landen Mond regarding his insomnia. Statement begins.”

“I’ve never been able to sleep consistently. Not in bed, anyway. When I was a kid and my mum would take me somewhere in her car, I would be out like a light. Even if it was just a short drive to school, if she looked in the backseat, she would see me napping. I couldn’t stand the idea of just sitting and waiting. Not even staring out the windows and watching the sprawling cities and hearing the roaring traffic was any relief. I could not stand it. So, I slept. I would lean against the car door, shut my eyes, and drift off so I could be woken up at whatever destination. Then I would rush out the car as fast as possible. 

You would think being able to nod off in a moving vehicle would make it very easy to lie down in a bed and rest, but you would not be more wrong. I would always have some reason to push my bedtime further back. Homework, a book I just had to finish the next chapter of, my belly aching for a snack. Anything and everything was enough. It just always felt like there was more I wanted to do- had to do- and if I dared lie down for even a moment, I would miss it. And I know you’re supposed to allow your body to relax to sleep, get rid of all distractions- I knew even then, I would look up how to sleep better- but I simply couldn’t. Some nights I would rather just stand in my room aimlessly walking in circles than simply lie down and stop moving. As you can imagine, my parents were not thrilled. Got punished for it a lot. Pathetic as it is, I can’t get this one thing out of my head: It was my last year of primary school. I had gotten in trouble a few times that year for being unable to stay awake in class. Believe me, I would have liked to, but my body had other plans. Still, things didn’t get… too bad. But then there was the last day. I had been staying up the night before, so of course karma came and I overslept last night. My mum, at her wits end, decided it just simply wasn’t worth taking me to school that day. I had friends in primary. Best friends I had ever made in my life even. Again, pathetic, I know. Point is, I never even got to say goodbye to them.

Was that a wake up call in any way? Did I get myself together? No. I would try and try but sleep felt simply impossible. My health was absolutely awful. My sleep schedule would almost invert itself every week. I would force myself under my covers, trying to get it back on track. I would tell myself to just calm down and breathe. But then I would overfocus on every single tiny breath I took. I had no idea how to make my body start breathing on its own again, so I would just keep forcing myself out of fear of what would happen if I stopped. When you don’t sleep, every sense cranks itself up to the edge. There’s this dull headache in the back of your skull and you think your brain is failing you. You can’t help but check your heartbeat to make sure it's still there. And even when it is, you can’t help but think that it’s too fast, that its too slow, that you’re going to die, that you are dying. All of the thoughts you have about mortality, about the fact you’ll one day simply cease… There’s no protection from it. You just have to sit in it, let it all swarm you, and hope your body finally sleeps. It’s a nightmare. Worse than any one I’ve ever had. Not that I’ve ever had a nightmare. Or a dream. My sleep is just… nothing.

Before the last few months, I was managing four hours on average. Best I’ve ever done in my whole life. It’s a miracle I don’t fall asleep at work. I just throw myself at it while running on fumes the whole time and it somehow works out… I don’t think I even know how to not just run on fumes. My sleep is always broken. One night, I fall asleep at 2 in the morning and wake up at 6. Other nights, I mercifully manage to turn in at 10 pm, but then I just find myself waking up at 1 or 2 or 3, some treacherous time that blurs between night and morning, and no matter what I do, I can’t get back to sleep. At some point, I just decided I would give in and call it an early day whenever that happens. Some days I take naps in the middle of them. Some days I don’t. Some weekends I completely collapse. Some weekends I don’t. I could not for the life of me find any rule or solution. But at least it was normal.

It stopped being normal six months ago. It was night and I was doing my usual routine of not sleeping. I had at least managed to will myself to lay in the bed without staring at my phone. Instead, I stared up at the ceiling fan above me. I watched the blades spin at maximum speed. I researched urban legends a lot in my youth, especially as a means of escaping sleep. So while I lied there, I couldn’t help but think of the myth of Fan Death: If you don’t know about it, it’s a Korean rumor that if you sleep in a closed room with a running fan, the fan will suck up your oxygen and you’ll die of carbon dioxide poisoning. Technically, it’s about electric fans, not ceiling fans, but that didn’t matter in my tired, racing mind. And then my thoughts began to drift towards another way that ceiling fan could kill me. At any time, a screw could go loose and the whole entire thing could fall on me and crush me. I tried to reason with myself. I was clearly getting worked up over nothing. 

Then I felt it. The horrible stillness. I felt it in my arms. This tingling numbness. It felt like the flesh inside my arms was being pressed and squeezed so tight that there would be nothing but my bones. It didn’t even hurt. It was just so uncomfortable and my arms felt so stiff and hard to move. I didn’t know if I was having a panic attack or sleep paralysis but whatever it was, I couldn’t handle it. I almost jumped out of bed. The feeling quickly left my arms but I didn’t feel any comfort in that fact. I decided that sleeping for now was a bust. I fled to my living room.

My mind was too exhausted for television, but I just needed to do something. Anything to take my mind off of the thoughts. I thought some nighttime gardening would do the trick. I wouldn’t have been the first time. Taking care of my plants has always been therapeutic, in a way. I sometimes joke that they have a more healthy lifestyle than I do. But when I turned towards my snake plants and aloe veras, they were all drooping. Wilting from neglect, even though I had just watered them yesterday. Worse, they were covered in fine layers of dust. It looked like they hadn’t been touched in years. The flowers I keep vased were even worse. Petals were strewn across the floor and the stem was just a black, rotted stick. I stared down at it and felt the dust in my throat. Then I felt the stillness again. In my legs.

I forced myself out the front door. I started wandering the streets. It was a cold night. One where the chill of the wind isn’t completely unbearable, but it still bites at your skin and compels you to keep walking. That’s my favorite temperature. By all means, it should have been a wonderful night for me to simply walk in, but I could not shake off the feeling that something was deeply wrong. Everything was so quiet. None of my neighbors had a single light on in their house, not that I could see. As I walked, I came across a street light in the neighborhood that has always blinked and flickered throughout all the years I’ve lived here. But that night, the light remained completely still, the same as all the others. I don’t know why, but seeing that was what made me shift from feeling uneasy to feeling afraid.

I kept walking until I was in the city. I’ve been in the city late at night. It’s never quiet. It’s always bright and loud and alive. But the only lights that were on were the streetlights that oppressively shined upon the pavement. None of the buildings were open. The buildings weren’t even places. They were just… buildings. I don’t know how to describe it. There were no stores or apartment buildings or houses or libraries or movie theatres, there were just buildings, just monuments of concrete and wood that were impossible to associate with any sign of human life. Cars filled the street, but they didn’t run. They weren’t on. I dared to peak inside a few. Every time, I saw a person sitting in the driver’s seat. But they were asleep. At least, that’s what I hoped they were. I didn’t want to consider the other option. I banged on windows, but no one ever responded. I didn’t even hear the sound of my own fists punching the glass. Everything was dead silent.

I kept walking until I saw a building that was a place. A sign out front with a faint orange glow, like the neon lights were just about to give out. “The Last Stop” were the words, next to an image of a beer bottle. “Open all hours”. I’m not much of a drinker, but at that point I would do anything to not be in that lifeless city. I stepped inside and glanced around. The bar seemed old and run-down, yet the people were all dressed very formally. Tuxedos and suits and dresses. Faint green lighting came down from the ceiling and I couldn’t help but compare the hospital lights. The bar was just as cold inside as the city was outside, and it was just as quiet. The people moved, but they never made a sound. They didn’t speak to each other. They just sat there, staring down at their drinks and occasionally drank, almost with a rhythm. The entire place smelled of what I thought at the time was vinegar. Now, I think it was formaldehyde.

“Welcome, friend”, the bartender said to me in a voice completely devoid of passion. His skin was so pale, like he had never seen the sun. He looked just as formal and the other bargoers, but it looked like a vacuum bag had been poured on top of him. He was covered in dust. Not wanting to be rude and feeling underdressed for whatever this bar was, I decided not to mention it. “What will you be having?” he asked me. I told him I didn’t care. So I sat at the bar and with slow, deliberate motions, he poured me a drink. It looked like normal liquor. It smelled like normal liquor, outside of the pickle-scent that permeated everything in the building. When I drank it, it went down like mud and it tasted even worse. I don’t know why I kept drinking when he offered more cups. Maybe I was just too scared to go back out. So I sat at the bar. He asked me questions. About my aspirations, my career goals, everything I wanted to do in life. And after every question, he would pass me another bottle of that horrible, thick brown liquid, and I would take it and drink it. 

At some point, I lost count of how many I had had. My brain was buzzing. My lips felt numb and all my words were slurred, but I just kept answering questions. Then I tried to drink another, but couldn’t. My arm wouldn’t move. I tried to let go of the cup, but my hand was firmly gripped onto it like the cup was part of my body. I tried to stand up and all the bones in my leg were stone. I was paralyzed. No matter how much I commanded my limbs to move, nothing worked. My vision was blurry. All my thoughts were coated in layers of thick mud and alcohol but it didn’t nothing to dull the terror. All it did was put everything in slow motion. Seconds expanded into multiple minutes. I watched the bartending slowly lean over to me and look at my face, frozen in fright. “It looks like you need some help getting home.”

I tried to scream, but my jaw was wired shut. All I could do was watch as the bartender took ages to get closer to me. My arms and legs were completely numb and I couldn’t even breathe. My muscles were just gone. He put his hand on my shoulder and patted it. “You should sleep this off”, he said. And then he pushed. It took what felt like an hour to hit the ground. An hour of being completely petrified as I felt my body drop to the ground. When I thought I would finally hit the floor behind me, I just kept falling. There was a pit in the ground that hadn’t been there before, and I was landing right into it. With each second it took me to fall, I took notice of just how the hole was dug. The sides of the wall just barely touched me. It was exactly my size.

When my back hit the ground, my body jolted to life. I was instantly sober and my ability to move came back. I ran. I ran until I couldn’t see the bar anymore. Even though the city was now awake and all the other buildings had people going in and out of them and cars were blaring across the road, I kept running. And when I finally got home, I did not stop moving. I did not sit down and I did not dare touch my bed. I’ve been wrong ever since. I don’t get tired any more. Or maybe I’m just always at the same level of exhaustion. My plants don’t bring me comfort anymore. Nothing does. Nothing I do can muster me to feel… anything really. I’ve tried buffets, any movie, video games, music so loud it should rupture my eardrums, beaches, even skydiving, and I can’t muster up anything. Nothing feels new, or different, or good. Even thinking of things I’ve done in the past doesn’t offer any nostalgia or joy. There’s just nothing inside me. Nothing at all. But the worst of it is whenever the stillness comes back. When my hands won’t let go of something or my foot refuses to move and I start worrying that I might never move again. That my body will collapse and I’ll be a motionless nothing for eternity. That’s why I need to keep moving. That’s why I haven’t slept in six months. Why I haven’t even blinked in six months. Because if I close my eyes one more time, they won’t ever open again.”

Landen’s chest rises. And falls. He breathes. Fast. He breathes and breathes, inhaling twice for each exhale. His hands desperately grip the bench he sits on, searching for any form of stability. Tears run down his face. The Archivist drinks it all in with equal disgust and fascination. It is wonderful. It is horrible. He is full and he is a monster. At least, he thinks, this one will not be haunted in his dreams. For the moment Landen dreams is the moment Landen Mond ends. “Statement ends.” The Archivist says, unable to wipe the satisfaction from his face. He gets up from the bench. His work here is done. He does not want to be here any longer. Jon does not want to be here when the guilt fully sets in. “Thank you.”

As Jon leaves, Landen tries to lift himself from the bench. He can’t. His legs are stuck. His arms are stuck. He is a corpse and corpses don’t move. But Landen keeps trying. He chokes on his own tears but he keeps trying to move. Until he manages to stand up, run up to Jon and put a cold dead hand on the man’s shoulder. 

Jon slowly turns around. He looks at his victim Landen. The smoke of Landen’s terror wafts over Jon and makes his lungs feel like they're filled with the worst poison. The ash sticks in Jon’s mouth. He wants to throw up. He wants to throw back up each and every word he wrenched from Landen’s throat and ate. But he can’t. Landen’s grey eyes stare into him. “Do it again.”

Jon tries to back away, but Landen will not let go. “P- pardon?”

“Do. It. Again.”

“No, I-”

The desperation on Landen’s face grows. “I felt it. All of it. Not the quiet dread. The actual fear I felt in the moment. That was the first time I have felt anything in months. Do it again. Please.”

Why is he begging for this? Jon is a monster. Why did Jon want to do this in the first place? Jon is a monster. Why did he think he could feast on the horror of an already dead man and simply leave without consequence? Maybe because that’s what he’s always done as the Archivist. The Fears did not often leave meals unfinished, and many statement givers died after giving their statement. 

Jon does not want to see this any more, despite his nature. “No.”

“You don’t understand!” Landen screams, not knowing that Jon knows far more than Landen ever will. Jon is always the one that knows while others get hurt. “I haven’t seen the sunrise since that night! I can check my phone to see it’s noon, but when I look at the sky? It’s night. It’s a big dark nothing with no stars, just a lifeless empty moon that reminds me that that night has never ended for me. Do you know what that does to a person? For your entire life to be stretched into a single, unescapable moment?” Something Jon snaps. “You’re already dead”, he replies as though it were a simple fact. Because it is.

Landen’s feverish desperation melts into confusion. “What?”

“You- you died. At the age of twelve. There was a car accident. Your mother was the only survivor.”

“I- I don’t remember… No, I would remember a-”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-two.”

“How many cups did you drink that night?”

“Twenty. H- How… But I don’t…”

While Landen contemplates his stolen life, Jon takes the opportunity to break free from Landen’s grip. Jon turns and he runs. He runs until Landen is out of his sight, even though the man will never truly leave his Sight after giving a statement. But Jon cannot face Landen in-person right now. He just can’t. He can’t even bare to think about it.

Jon does not think about Landen. Jon does not think about what he would do in Landen’s situation. Jon does not think about the fact he already knows the answer. Jon does not think about his coma. Jon does not think about the months he spent as nothing but an observer of nightmares. Jon does not think about how he would rather live than be a motionless repository for dread or motionless corpse. Jon does not think about how he chose to do something.

Jon does not think Georgie. Jon does not think about how it feels Georgie would have preferred Jon to stay dead rather than do something. Jon does not think about the way his friend seemed almost disappointed by the fact he woke up.

Jon is a monster. He needs fear to live. But as long as he lives, he will damn well do something about it. He will move. It doesn’t matter how many coffins Jon has to climb into, how many bullets he has to pull out of people, how many people grow to hate and despise him. It doesn’t even matter if Jon drops dead, really. As long as he can make the world a better place in the process. As long as he can save someone else. Besides, Jon is already dead, in a way.

Jon’s eyes will not shut. They truly can’t any more. And Jonathan Sims will not rest.

[magnus-archives-fan-statements]

MAG0001 - Still-Beating

[CLICK]

Archivist

Statement of Pierre-François Percy, regarding the life, and autopsy, of the Frenchman simply known as ‘Tarrare’. Original statement given as a part of a letter to Jonah Magnus, February 18th, 1824. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begins.

Archivist (Statement)

My dearest Jonah, 

Having heard through mutual acquaintances, it must be stated how strangely fond you have become over that endeavour of yours. It amazes me, truly, that there could possibly be as much esoteric substance in this world as you believe. It finally explains one thing that has irked me for the past few decades. Thus, I found it right to finally indulge in your youthful project, as I believe it holds a great deal of value for the future. Perhaps long after both of our times on this earth are up. I grow sick of my memoirs, and thus I shall bestow upon you my statement. One that bodes no relevance in any of my texts. Any relevance that I’d wish to give to the public, that is. 

I’m certain you remember my most notorious autopsy. A man of no proper name, date of birth, or worth. From what I can tell, he earned the name, ‘Tarrare’ from the likes of fellow showmen of the streets of paris. What made him so special, as I am sure you already know, was his nature as a polyphage. He would eat anything. He could devour feasts fit for dozens of full grown men, and yet still remained hungry. In the few moments that we had been within each other's presence, before his death, he spoke rather fondly of being eternally hungry. Alas, he may have associated himself with charlatans and thieves, he could not lie to save his life. That hunger had ached him. It must have been a true pain for his life to constantly endure that necessity to gorge on whatever he could find. If that pain of his was akin to what I’ve had to endure recently, then it is no wonder he went to such taboo thresholds of debauchery. He ate plenty - plenty of things he should not have. Live animals, the poor things, had been subject to being mere meals to him. He didn't have the decency to kill them first, and I struggle to imagine the pain that they’d endure, trapped from within him. A monster he may have been, yes, but a monster that was in pain. I could not stop myself from giving him my sympathies. 

There was always something wrong about poor Tarrare. In all of his tricks, it never seemed to be that he was actually filled by whatever he ate. You would expect a little bit of bloating after he had eaten, say, an entire basket of apples. Alas, he always seemed malnourished. Deathly thin, past his rancid demeanour. As if he hadn’t actually been digesting what he was eating. It was certainly not an illusion, some brave fellows had directly dropped whatever they could find directly into his mouth. I could never. Whilst his cadaver was of interest to me, the idea of being close to him, whilst still being alive haunts me. 

It had not surprised me that his parlour tricks would eventually be the death of him. With nowhere else to go, he must have fled from all forms of medical attention until being diagnosed with tuberculosis, with not much time left to aid him. He called for me, directly. I had to travel from Paris down to Versailles, of all places. In all the years since our initial time together, he really did not get far. I left a few days later, I had unfinished business that was of relative importance. Although, I was too late. Tarrare had been pronounced dead, soon after, in the year of our lord, 1798 AD. By the time I got there, he had been dead for a few days. Not one person had the decency to preserve or care for his remains. They were dirty, and disgusting, but the lack of care for him was what truly aggravated me. A man of his wonders, and everyone sat by and did nothing? Blasphemy, I tell you. Blasphemy to what we work for. For discovery.

 He did not leave a clean corpse behind, to nobody’s surprise. The polyphate was bloated, and had rotted away as if he was being supported only by his strange feasts, and not by the air that we breathe. That was made evident after I volunteered to dissect him, myself. Nobody else could, especially from the dreadful stench that had filled any room that his corpse had been left in. Despite this, my curiosity had gotten the better of me. I had to know what he was hiding, underneath those piles of flesh. This, my dear friend, is the reason that I believe this story belongs in your collection of events. 

I had little help with my investigation, as expected. From my discovery, though, I could tell that his hunger had a perfect explanation. His torso, alone, had almost been entirely dedicated to his digestion system. From what I could tell, his lungs, whilst being of a fully-grown man, had been the size of a toddlers. He should have been dead long, long ago, and yet he remained relatively healthy, for his deformities. The same could be said for his heart, kidneys, and his ribcage. By all means, he should never have been alive to begin with. And yet he had lived for so, so long. His eyes twitched with every pull and twist I had made from within his cadaver. Even when I pulled his heart from his chest, there had still been a strange sense of life in his twisted face. I had to investigate, you know me. It was strange, even for a man of his uniqueness. The first place I investigated were his eyes. They should have been dull, with the corneas clouded. He passed away a day or two ago, you see. He should have been showcasing more symptoms than simply being… dead. Yet, here he remained. His eyes were clear, and for a brief moment, I thought I saw them look at me. Not in my direction, no, but rather directly at me. That hadn’t been the only peculiar thing about him, though. Saliva dribbled from his mouth, as if he were still hungry, even in death!

The most disgusting part of that procedure was his skin, and any visible aspect of his body before I began to make any incisions. When I stood above him, I had the faintest idea that he may have still been alive. His body had a sense of weakness to it. One that had a flicker of warmth, not found in the healthy, nor the dead. Alas, he had no pulse, and when I had eventually found his heart, it remained still. That’s why I still feel nervous, over what I had observed of him, before looking inside. His skin was horrid, rancid, even. Disgusting to even imagine, to this day. If it hadn’t been for the fact that I had removed his heart mere moments ago, I’d suspect that he was still alive. My suspicions were, unfortunately, correct. Involuntary spasms are common in the dead, last moments of life desperately trying to hold on. Yet, I’ve never heard of a corpse that could talk. 

He told me something that I fear I’ll never forget. As if paralysed, he moved only his eyes, and began to speak. ‘Please help’ was all he could muster, without blood foaming at his mouth. It could not have happened, I swear on it. Perhaps they were delusions, frightful delusions. There’s nothing that could cause that, and still it happened. I had to keep going, ignore the falsehoods that projected in front of me. That delusion of mine was auditory only, it must’ve been the idea of him still being alive that made me think of him looking at me. 

I finally got to his stomach, the bloated, ulcerated mess that it was. Almost all of his torso was dedicated to his digestion system, the damn thing. I’ve seen plenty of organs in my lifetime, of the human variety and of beasts. Nothing ever looked like what I saw. It was noxious, to say the least. It still moved. Gargling, twisting, jerking. Like a heart.

I had to remove it. I could not think of anything else to do. If something was causing it to move, it was a danger to me, and to anything else in the vicinity. It grumbled, churned, akin to a parasite. Putting my palms on either side of it, I pulled. Nothing. After a few incisions, slicing it away from the rest of his body, I pulled again. Still, nothing. With all of my force, I tried one final time, and ripped it apart. From the other side of his stomach, there was no inner lining. No resemblance of stomach acid. Instead, there was a hole. Not a wound, it wasn’t bloodied, and there was no resemblance of damage to his back either. Yet it was there. Gaping wide, what I could imagine to be saliva having dribbled from its crevice. I regret looking inside. What I saw wasn't right. 

I saw meat. Plenty of it, more than what could have been from within his body. It wasn’t right, it wasn't his flesh, it was of his prey. Snake meat is easy to differentiate, and it made up plenty of what was inside of him. I took it out, piece by piece, heap by heap, and yet it was never ending. I had carved away everything that was once inside of Tarrare, and yet there was more. It wasn’t possible. I turned Tarrare on his side, and pushed my hand in. I would feel his spine, eventually, but never did. I only stopped once I pushed my elbow past his skin. It would not stop. 

When I looked back at Tarrare's face, he fell dormant. His eyes were fully opaque. I hate to imagine what that meant. He was human, despite the abnormalities, but that could not have made sense. 

I looked within. Curiosity had latched onto me, and I knew that I would not stop until I’d find a proper explanation. Something to define this vile monstrosity. There were piles of it. Blood-coated things, that laid in great mountains, from within him. The smell was enough to make me nearly faint. The hells were open, and I am afraid that it may be the same place that poor Tarrare’s soul has been dammed to. The mountains were getting smaller, toppling over, small pieces being dragged away by the floor itself. As if I had peered into a hall of putrid flesh, made manifest. 

If I kept my hand in, much longer, I fear it would’ve been taken. It seemed to be a place with pure indifference to what entered the heaps. I saw gold. Shiny materials interwoven with the blood. Cutlery, a gold fork, something he apparently spoke of as being the cause of his illness, was lodged in the piles of flesh. He did eat the fork, yes, despite what my medical records show. I couldn’t write in them saying that I had found a mountain of meat from within him, containing the very fork, no. I’m eccentric, but I am not crazy. 

Upon this horrific inspection, I had to excuse myself from the morgue, for my own wellbeing. More and more of the impossible had been unveiled about this polyphate, more than what I was happy to think of. In the halls, I managed to breathe some relatively fresh air. That was when I had run into a strange fellow, one I had never met before. He seemed as if he came from your part of London. The one of Aristocracy and arrogance. Of course, I mean nothing of the sort to you, Jonah. I find you to be welcoming company, unlike that man. 

Despite his voice, that man was built as if he were a tavern brawler. He dressed as a surgeon, had the scalpel and equipment of a surgeon, and yet seemed so out of place. His clothing seemed to be a few sizes too small for him, and the clothes were certainly not clean enough for him to consider doing his job. I believe he stole it. The name that’d be stitched into his shirt had been ripped away, too, and a crude patch was sewn on in its place. He wouldn’t let me see what was written there, saying that his word was more than enough proof to who he was. In one hand had been a glove, gripped tightly into a fist, whereas his other hand was keeping a hold of a potato sack, stained red. It bulged and contorted in shapes that made me believe that it was not potatoes inside. Something else. He called himself Doctor Aver. He hadn’t given me any proof of that name, so I believe it could’ve been a lie, or that he wasn’t a doctor at all. He asked if he could see ‘The Remains’. My belief is that only the doctors who had begun the investigation should keep with a cadaver. They know what they’re looking for. If this Aver fellow ended up removing the wrong thing, it could remove all notions of interest on what made Tarrare into, well, into what he was. I stood my ground, if you’d believe it. Against such a behemoth, I felt akin to David against Goliath. But, it wasn’t enough. He attacked me. Threw me to the ground, and gave me a rather nasty head injury. By the time I had come to my senses, I had returned to the surgery. Tarrare was gone, the tiles on the floor were shattered, and the surgical table that I had him laid upon was toppled over. Aver was nowhere to be seen, either. They had both disappeared into thin air. All that had remained was a steaming pile of fresh blood and guts, with the same potato sack, empty, thrown across the room. 

What truly terrifies me of this realisation, is not that the remains seemed fresh, but what I had seen, buried within the piles of flesh and still-beating organs. A twitching, golden chain, and the faint noise of ticking. He must have eaten it before his last meal. Memory serves me issues, nowadays, but I do faintly recall his desire to eat a surgeon’s watch, after saving his life. The Surgeon, Giraud, had threatened to cut him open and retrieve the watch himself - years before the autopsy. I worry that there may have been some sort of dastardly trick being played on me, by my associates, and yet, I found myself unable to ask anybody else what I was being subject to. It laid, bloodsoaked, on the ground, surrounded by piles of gore. Human gore.

 I burned what was left. I left that watch somewhere, a place that I do not care to remember now. I knew I could not make sense of it all, Aver, the fork, the meat… and so I kept it secret, until now. I bid to you my last secret, one that I am certain will plague me with nightmares. Although, I did do some investigations of my own, on the watch. To my amazement, and dreadful terror, Giraud had passed away mere days before that autopsy. He was found, bare, in the streets of Paris. Returning home from work, I’d assume. He was gutted, and was left as a hollow cadaver. 

My most sincere apologies for neglecting to tell you of this paranormal encounter any sooner. I figured that your work, whilst consisting of the crazed commoners of London, would be unfit for your institute. Alas, I believe that a story that goes untold is a story not worth remembering. And if there were to be a person I’d exchange this tale with, it’d certainly be you. Keep safe, Jonah. And look out for any possible surgeons, who knows what they may be holding onto.  

Yours to trust, 

Pierre-François Percy

Archivist

Statement ends.

Well, I am certainly happy that I had lunch early today. 

Jonah Magnus, in all of his wonders, certainly had famed friends. I had Sasha do some investigations into Percy’s papers, and yes, it did not mention this supposed ‘Aver’, or whatever the contents of that stomach of Tarrare’s actually held. Other than that, though, there’s not much that we can do to validate his thoughts. It should be stated that Pierre-François Percy passed away a year after giving his statement to Jonah Magnus. Unknown illness, in the end. 

I do find myself drawn to ‘Aver’, however. If it’s true that he was the one who had killed Giraud, then it’d explain how he managed to enter a morgue without drawing suspicion. Although, the name ‘Aver’ does seem to remind me of Case 0130109, with Aver Meats and its… excessive amounts of gore and guts. I worry that whatever Tarrare’s stomach had led to… it ended up in that abattoir. 

I’m getting tired of all of the meat. 

End recording. 

[CLICK]

[avataroft4t]

everyone in tma is always so articulate when giving statements, like they never fumble. id end up getting nervous and saying smth like “bro, swear to fuck i just shit myself there was a creature staring at me bro trust, on god you gotta believe me” like what

[3ofspades]

Statement of Marc Spector, Steven Grant, and Jake Lockley, regarding a cave and it's suffocating consequences.

[cryptskeep]

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