one sentence(ish) summaries of every magnus archive episode PART 2
(eps 61-110) thank u for the funny comments and tags on the last part i love u guys
the rest of these may take a while as i've caught up to where i am currently in the podcast but i will finish them like in a month i promise
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61. the thrilling sequel to man does not open coffin: man DOES open coffin.
62. surely this doctor can find an easier way to scam people out of money than putting them in a little book.
63. THE DARK ATE MY BROTHER IN LAW.
64. this is possibly the plot of laura croft tomb raider
65. mmm crumchy
66. what's the opposite of an unboxing video
67. as close to a coffeeshop au as you're going to get from this podcast
68. Doctors hate him! Man REFUSES to die from tuberculosis!
69. your college's psych department has the worst idea ever.
70. reverse death note
71. not even death will stop this woman from taking the british subway
72. man doesn't want to be low key racist in his last moments before getting eaten
73. police versus the second coming of dark jesus
74. lady is haunted by an ad for coffee
75. mike crew says "uh fuck it let's just put this guy on a skyscraper forever"
76. ryan from buzzfeed unsolved breaks into a train yard and suffers consequences
77. you're not a enough of a bitch to be my real mom
78. man gets harassed by his cousin and then exorcises him
79. you know that chase scene in scooby doo with the doors
80. stupid idiot motherfucking jurgen leitner
81. i have been personally victimized by the sequel to the hungry hungry caterpillar
82. pov: elias threatens to cancel you
83. mannequin takes matters into its own hands after people don't like its pitch for a new window display
84. a hoarder put newspaper on my friend's face :(
85. hey there's maybe a little man upon these stairs?
86. man gets got by a squiggly thing in the dark.
87. plumber is so oblivious to spooky happenings around him that it possibly saves his life.
88. guys i think this guy likes to dig
89. lesbian investment banker finds a new, less evil job: arson!
90. guy who turns people's bones starts a gym where he promises not to turn your bones! (he is lying)
91. i was stalked by lightning for 10 years and i all i got were these stupid scars
92. jonah magnus is a bad friend // another day another elias slay
93. ocd is no match for purple fuzz
94. let the bodies drop gently to the floor let the bodies drop gently to the floor
95. im so sorry my brain refuses to remember what the war ones were about but i think one guy got gently kissed on the forehead so that's pretty nice.
96. diversity wins! the not-quite-human delivery men who stole your identity and business are maybe gay?
97. man gets gaslighted by an entire town about a hole
98. 🎶mister sandman bring me a dream, actually don't, please stay far from me 🎶
99. another one bites the dust
100. archival assistants face off against the general public (they lose)
101. jon finally levels up high enough to unlock an eldritch horror's tragic backstory
102. LOCAL MAN MARRIES BUG
103. peppa eats a clown and they cover her in concrete instead of congratulating her.
104. pennywise stole my brother's skin
105. it's world war z baby
106. Something Big Is In Space.
107. man is interrogated about the time he saw thomas the train roasts people alive and also sans is there
108. actor is stalked by mask who liked his monologue so much that it tells its mask friends to come watch.
109. sometimes a family is just a serial killer's daughter and that guy who maybe killed some vampires
110. yeah man those spiders be eating
Part 1 |
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Maybe how the guys are when they get sick? With whoever you want it's fine
I was sick through the weekend and into Monday so this is oddly fitting, here we go nonnie
Shidou Ryusei
Ignores that he is sick, he needs to be near his deathbed for something to actually stop him. He still has the counciousness to wear a mask of he goes outside but he isn't about to let some cold get him down.
Understands why he gets cut off from a game if he is sick but he hates it, hates staying home, not the type of person who likes being told to rest. It worsens his personality so just leave him be, he isn't one for being babied.
The screaming from the window in the morning thing doesn't change, just sounds hoarse and is followed by a lotta coughing. And his morning nudism is affected because he feels cold.
Honestly, if he could pick a fight with his desease he would, but he can't. So he pushes forward and sweats it out, he is gonna be exercising at home, even sick he has too much energy and he needs to burn it.
Tho, he is still sick which means his high energy isn't quite as high as usual, trying to keep up his routine ends up tiring him out and the minute he sits down and closes his eyes he is dead asleep. Try to coax him into going to bed, sleep will give him the rest he needs, and he is gonna be fine the next day, he gets well fast.
Michael Kaiser
The face of denial. This man tries to pretend he isn't sick, claims the team's doctor is exaggerating by giving him time off, he is perfect, he can't get sick. Tho, he looks sick, tired eyes and slouched shoulders, he sounds the part too, but just don't tell him how nasal his voice sounds.
He tries to keep up his usual life, but he is slower, more silent than usual, and generally less attentive to the world around. But he is Michael Kaiser, he's gotta keep his head held high, tho he won't leave the house, and if he as much as looks out of the window, he will be wearing sunglasses.
The denial is so strong that he will take his meds but still mumble about not really needing them. Also doesn't wanna be babied, refuses to accept being cared for because he refuses to accept he needs it. Be a little insistent tho, offering here and there, at some point he will break, but will say he is only accepting because you want it so much.
Once he breaks it gets easier, tho, and he will allow himself to rest and relax. Will just sit by you wherever you are cause he wants company - if you need to go to work, no you don't, he won't let you leave the house. He will also just doze off for a few minutes at a time wherever he sits down, denies that too tho. Will sleep like a rock when you two get to bed, but you aren't cause he will be snoring. It's gonna be like that for a couple of days.
Oliver Aiku
Big baby. Huge dramatic baby. An oversized Victorian child dying from tuberculosis. Nevermind he just has a nasty cold, cause if you tell him that he is gonna say you are making little of his suffering. He knows it's not that serious but that never stopped his shameless ass from pouting and begging before.
Loves being babied, wants to be cared for and coddled. Will whine endlessly if you aren't in the same room as him. Might actually sit outside the bathroom door like a needy dog. Tho, if you really need to go to work he is gonna understand it, but he will message you every twenty minutes about something random, he wants attention.
Despite wanting to be babied he is the type to not let you come too close to his face, he doesn't want you getting sick. Will let you caress his head if you are sitting in a chair separate from him, or will ask you to sit on the other end of the couch and massage his feet. Sure to end up falling asleep if you do either of these things.
To make up for the lack of physical contact he ends up wanting to be around you all the time. He feels cold easily when he gets sick so he loves watching moves with you while he is cuddled under a blanket. If you need to cook there will be a huge burrito watching you from a corner in the kitchen. It's good to be around him too cause he is a dry pill swallower and someone gotta stop that bad habit.
Won't let you sleep turned towards him, depending on how sick he is he might even consider sleeping in a different room. Tho, if it's just a cold he will settle for having you spooning him. He is just so it's a little hard to properly embrace him, but it's nice to rest your head against his back.
brought to you by: @tinnaagine @loser-vxbez @kiurona @bentolover @bevernats @weirdbutpr3tty @ada7201 @vollereix @wishiknewwhatiwasdoingwithmylife @qichun @true-latverian-baklava @oliveraikusweatyshirt @fivenightsatwhoreville
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shattered on the cliff’s edge, trapped by the tides
part 1 / 7 | or: read on ao3
The fog rolls in like a heavy cloud that morning, leaving the city in eerie darkness as Steve hurries toward the heavy door to the steel manufactory, scarf wound tightly around his neck to keep out the cold so uncommon for late September.
“Thanks,” he mutters to the gruff, broad man who holds open the door for him. He sees him every morning but has never had the chance to ask about his name. The question is on the tip of his tongue when, with a nod and a touch to his sturdy-looking hat, the man walks down a different corridor than Steve.
Where outside the fog was so thick that all noise seemed dulled, like cotton in his ears, the manufactory is a cacophony of banging and clanging, hissing and whirring, and Steve needs a moment to breathe the polluted, heavy air that’s always just a tad too hot for his lungs.
He doesn’t mind the work, is good with his hands and enjoys the single-minded focus it provides on a good day, the deafening noise loud enough to drown out most of the comments the other workers throw his way; comments about his father, his upbringing, and his rather sudden downfall when Richard D. Harrington decided to disown his eldest son three years ago without rhyme or reason.
Steelwork, engineering, intricate cogs that work massive machinery — they fascinate him, they keep him busy fourteen hours a day, and they leave him dead to the world when the shift is over and graciously let him sleep through the dreams that have been haunting him ever since he can remember being haunted.
It’s always the same dream, in the fall more than in the spring. A lighthouse trapped in the sea, waves rolling and crashing, water rising so high that it might as well swallow the lighthouse whole. And through it all, a beacon. And through it all, a voice he cannot make out. And through it all, a ticking that echoes through his skull even long after he gasped awake with a lungful of water that Robin says might be Tuberculosis.
He blinks away the gloom that has laid over his heart like the fog over the city, shakes off the trancelike feeling that overtakes him every time he tries to think about the lighthouse when he is wide awake, and rubs away the headache that comes with sleep deprivation. It’s fall again, which means he spends his nights haunted by ghostly images of a lighthouse he’s not even sure exists, robbed of all chances at resting if he doesn’t work himself to the point of absolute exhaustion.
They are earlier this year, the night terrors. Everything is a little earlier this year.
A heavy hand lands on his shoulder as Emerson arrives behind him, leading him to their station with idle chatter about the weather and the horrible, horrible fog that Steve has not the patience to partake in today — which is just as well for Emerson and his sunny disposition, he’ll simply talk enough for the both of them. Steve is fond enough of him to let him be as he falls into the routine of working steel and breathing overheated, coal-stained air.
They work in unison until noon, the headache dull enough as long as he keeps busy, but almost blinding when he stops for even a second. A booming voice makes him look up from his station, though, as he is being summoned to the office.
It’s never a good sign, and Steve can feel the blood draining from his face, pulling the ache with it as it travels down his spine and settles in his centre in a pit of nausea.
“Oh no,” Emerson murmurs under his breath, even managing to sound genuine about it. “What did you do?”
Images assault his mind. Prison, if he’s lucky. Asylum and electroshock therapy if he’s not; if his father changed his mind about making it public that his eldest son and heir deserves punishment, or treatment for moral insanity. Steve tries not to think of that too often, tries not to look at men like that anymore — tries not to look at anyone anymore until the public forgets about him.
But every time he is reminded that he exists is another time of fear. Fear of being found out.
“I… have no idea,” Steve says after a while, looking up to where the door to the office looms above all of them, leaving them to feel like prisoners in a panopticon.
“Better not keep ‘em waiting, then. Probably too late to run, eh?”
“Probably,” Steve says, dazed, not really listening to Emerson as he kicks into motion and walks briskly up the stairs, pretending not to feel everyone’s eyes on his back.
It is out of a nervous habit that he pulls the watch from his pocket, its silver chain linked to his vest. It springs open in his hands as he takes the steps one by one, providing comfort for no reason other than it’s his. It doesn’t show the time, never has, but after losing everything at his father’s whim, the pocket watch stayed with him.
“Keep it,” Richard had sneered. “The blasted thing isn’t worth a penny!”
The fingers only ever moved incrementally over the years, and backwards, but still there is something about the watch that makes him keep it close at all times. Collecting himself, he closes his hand around the light metal and filigree ornaments and mentally counts to three before putting it back in his pocket and knocking on the door.
“Ah, Harrington,” the superior manager says, his voice sounding like gravel as per usual. The man has a habit of competing with the steel manufactory’s chimneys, only he smokes cigars instead of coal dust like his workers. Steve remembers the smell of fine cigars, and this office smells like the best among them.
It only helps to strengthen his disdain for the man.
Still he nods and aims for a pleasant smile. “You asked for me, sir?”
“Yes, yes,” the man says, leaning back in his thick leather chair and motioning for Steve to take a seat at the sturdy, delicately engraved mahogany desk. “Sit down, sit down, time is money and I give you more of that than you deserve anyway. I have a proposition for you and you are in no position to decline, yes?”
“Yes?” Steve says dumbly, taking his time to sit down just to spite him.
The man, however, is not as easily perturbed. “That’s what I want to hear, I have to admire your morale, Harrington. Here,” he turns and reaches for a cabinet, rummaging around for a minute before—
The blood in Steve’s veins freezes, leaving him cold and too hot all at once.
Underneath the beefy hand, he makes out a photograph — or possibly a postcard — showing a stark white lighthouse trapped in the sea, gigantic waves crashing into it, threatening to tear it down and carry it along to wherever the tides lead. The beacon of light is steadfast and stubborn, guiding and pointing at something that’s out of the frame, but what Steve can only assume is absolute nothingness out in the open sea.
He slides it over the table to lie in front of Steve, and he fights every urge to recoil, only gripping the arm rest far too tightly.
“See, we got a telegram earlier today that they’re having problems with the lighthouse up north. They say it’s something with the generator, not fit enough to last in the cold, where the air is made of saltwater more than oxygen.”
Steve nods, though he is only halfway listening, his heart hammering in his chest at the picture of the lighthouse, etched onto the paper like it has no idea it is also etched on the very forefront of Steve’s mind — has been, for almost three decades now.
“And since you’re the only one here traditionally educated in reading and writing,” the man continues, either unaware of Steve’s dizziness or delighting in it, “and you know your way around a machine or two, fixing the generator and handling the light shouldn’t be a problem for you.”
It’s not a question. It’s not even an offer.
Steve wonders if maybe he fell down the stairs and hit his head, if maybe the sleep deprivation is finally leading to hallucinations like Robin keeps warning him.
“You want me to fix the lighthouse?”
“That is precisely what I want, yes. Stay there a while, find out what seems to be the problem.”
He’s getting up, walking over to a cabinet, pulling out a half-empty bottle of what Steve can only assume is whisky. A biting, earthy smell floats through the room, thick enough to cling to his clothes if he stays here much longer.
“You’ll find yourself familiar with the equipment, as it is us who supply them. In fact, you have built generators and fixtures and engines like that. You’re a bright spark, Harrington, I can admit that. You’re the best fit. And I’m not asking.”
His jaw clicks shut, his hands clenched into fists beneath the table as he meets those dark eyes head-on.
“When do I leave?”
An ugly grin spreads the man’s face, gaining too much joy from other people’s powerlessness down the food chain.
“Tomorrow. If I remember correctly, and I usually do, you do not have much business to attend to, and even fewer things to pack. I trust you will find your place at the train station at five tomorrow morning. Emerson will know to fill your shoes in your absence.”
How long will I be gone? he wants to ask, but is too afraid that the answer will only be another cruel smirk and a sip of whisky.
He gets up, certain that he is being dismissed, and getting no sign that he’s wrong.
“Oh, and Harrington.” He stops with his hand on the door already. “Perhaps this is a good time to mention that the lighthouse is without a keeper. I have offered your services for the time being, seeing as you will already be there. The salary, of course, will be thrice as much as your usual.”
The daze is back, smelling of saltwater air and whisky, rushing in his ears like waves bursting on the cliffs.
“What happened to the old keepers?” he dares to ask.
“That doesn’t concern you.”
“Yes, it does. What happened to the old keepers?”
“I think you shall find out soon enough.” A beat of silence — horrible, tidal silence. Then, “You’re dismissed.”
***
The train ride is blessedly pleasant, the first class ticket providing the luxury of comfortable seating and relative silence, the wheels occasionally clicking along the railway loud enough to drown out the near-deafening rushing of the ocean in his ears — or perhaps it’s not the ocean, perhaps it is his own blood, pumped with fear and apprehension.
The only upside to all of this is the telegram he’s been gripping tightly all morning so as not to lose it, not to forget about it, not to think it was a dream. A childish, hopeless dream, a longing for company to battle the fear of the dark.
I’ll meet you there. 3 days.
Signed: Robin Buckley. She never took his name, said she did not want to be associated with Richard and the Harrington wealth that came with the Napoleonic wars — never mind that they happened almost a century ago.
Blood money isn’t wealth, Steven, she’d said to him on many occasions, and he loved her for it all the more.
Maybe it will be fine if Robin is there with him. Maybe they won’t end up succumbing to madness like people are wont to do, subjected to the endless loneliness of lighthouse keeping. Confronted with a darkness so deep it needs human invention to remain habitable. Maybe, he wonders idly and with shortness of breath, the world will end if all its lights are gone. Maybe all that will remain is nothingness and the ruthless sea — maybe, until the sun rises again and the light returns. But up north, the sun doesn’t stay all that long. Up north, they say the darkness is different. They say it’s sentient. They say—
A servant offers him some tea or coffee if he pleases, ripping hit out of his obsessive spiral of apprehension and fear.
“Yes, thank you,” he breathes, miming quiet politeness to cover up the lack of air in his lungs. The servant nods, not at all perturbed by Steve’s rather horrific disposition, and moves along.
The tea helps a little. It’s hard to think horrible thoughts when there is a steaming cup in your hands smelling comfortingly of herbs and just a hint at something spicy. It feels almost primal, his fear of the lighthouse — but just as primal is the comfort he finds in the warmth spreading from his hands all the way through his body. The shaking stops after a minute, and breath has returned to his lungs in a way that doesn’t leave him scared to let it out.
It will be fine. The sea will lose its terror, and so will darkness. He will read, and fix what needs to be fixed, and laugh at it all with Robin by his side, who will teach him about birds they will never see, about authors that don’t live anymore, and about the stars they get to watch.
It will be fine. He will be fine. Always, with Robin.
***
He arrives at the seaside town just before nightfall, and the first thing he notices is not the rushing of the ocean, but the crispness of the air that feels vastly different in his lungs to the grey and brown, polluted city air. It’s like he’s a babe taking his first breath in this world; and just like a babe, he is overcome with the urge to cry. He doesn’t, only pinches the bridge of his nose and grabs his bags — two of them, filled only with clothes and books to pass the time.
The walk to the next inn is a long one, and by the time he arrives there — guttural laughter coming even through closed doors and windows — he is frozen to his bones. If he’d thought that fall was quick to arrive in the city, he might as well have entered an arctic winter up here. The half suspects, though, that the cold comes from his empty stomach and the bitterness that replaced the fear just as well as the actual, biting cold.
And to think it’s only just early September.
He pushes the door open and finds it blissfully warm, a large fire roaring in the fireplace and in the hearth, leaving the food steaming on the plates. Silence settles almost immediately, and Steve freezes on the spot. Being perceived in a situation he has no control over has never been his strong suit, and he wonders just what these people have heard about him. If they heard anything at all.
“Come in or get out, but leave the cold out there,” a large lady says from behind the bar, an apron wrapped around her skirt and a towel in her hand as she eyes him with wary but not unkind eyes.
“Forgive me,” Steve says, stepping further into the inn and letting the heavy door fall shut behind him.
“Ahh,” someone says from where he’s sitting on a round table with six other, quite burly men. Fishermen, Steve assumes, or harbour workers, if their sun-tanned skin and general muscular build are any indication. He places his jug of beer on the table and eyes Steve rather closely. “You’re the boy they sent. Who will fix the lighthouse, aye?”
“Aye,” Steve says stupidly, internally cringing at himself. Then, turning towards the woman, “Have you a room to spare?”
“Have you money to spare?” she retorts, clearly mocking him for his odd choice of words — it’s hard, laying down his aristocratic upbringing, especially in a town auch as this.
“Of course,” he says. “For food, drink, and someone to bring me to the lighthouse in three days.”
Another man of the group snorts loudly, shaking his head and studying his ale like it would tell him the future.
“No way, boy. Ain’t no one gettin’ close to that thing.”
“She’s haunted. Has a mind and a life of her own, and she’s made it clear that no one is welcome to get too close. ‘S what lighthouses are for, eh? No getting too close. You get too close, you die. Simple as that.”
Steve takes it in, the pale faces of the men all nodding along, the thousand yard stares they all have in common — and his fear is back. But greater than his fear is his annoyance with men who insist on calling him boy and decide to speak in riddles instead of making sense.
“Haunted?” he asks, taking one of two spare seats at the table, nodding at the woman in thanks as she brings him an ale that only barely smells like piss. “How?”
“Haven’t you heard?” a fourth man, the oldest of them, speaks up. “There’s a curse on the lighthouse. No one gets out alive. We only ever bring her new stock, like cattle to the slaughterhouse. She takes. She takes and takes, boy.”
“So you do bring them,” Steve points out, far too tired and irritated to listen to a ghost story before he’s even had a proper, warm dinner.
The men still, and Steve places a tower of money in the centre of the table.
“It’s yours,” he says, looking at each of them, one after the other, “if you take us there in three days. Four, if the weather decides to play.”
“Us?”
“My wife,” Steve says.
“Fine,” one of them, the one who first spoke to him, grumbles, reaching for the money. “Now go. This table is for grownups, boy.”
With an eye-roll and an air of arrogance, Steve gets up and finds a seat at another table closer to the fireplace. Soon after, fresh stew is placed before him and he dives in.
***
The lighthouse towers on top of the cliffs and Steve watches, mesmerised, as he makes out its shape even in the pitch black darkness. It’s eerie, the power it emanates, the myths and legends that weave around it and its kind. Legends that would be fascinating learning about them in the safety of one’s bed, but which are horrifying to remember days before the nameless fates could be one’s own.
The darkness of the night really is endless here without the lights of the city, and he can only imagine how the lighthouse would help, how it would bring back hope and security, a promise of safe passage. It’s brings him a sort of peace; a purpose, imagining this town in the lighthouse’s beacon. Safe for the night, safe until the sun comes back.
Still it doesn’t ease his night terrors, filled with whispers as they are, growing in urgency and almost clear enough to make out.
Three days pass. Four. Five. There is no sign of Robin. Anxiety grows within him, because Steve knows Robin was going to take the seaside route from the Cunningham estate — well, one of them, at least.
She has a mind of her own. She takes and takes, boy. She’s haunted. Has a mind and a life of her own, and she’s made it clear that no one is welcome to get too close.
What if…
No. No, there is simply no way. Haunted lighthouses taking lives. There’s no— no way. He won’t fall for their ghost stories.
Unfortunately, however, they don’t fall for his charm either, and on the seventh day, when the sea is calm and the sun steady above them, the man who took they money — Old John, apparently — approaches him.
“We’re leaving now,” he says, shoving Steve ahead of him, deaf to his protest that they have to wait, they have to wait. “Your sweetheart ain’t coming, kid. Don’t think she’ll be coming anywhere ever again if she really took the ship. They talk of a ship that got lost in the storm, burst on the cliffs because there was no light. I’m sorry, kid, but I won’t risk waiting any longer.”
A ship lost in the storm?
But… No. No!
“No,” he whispers, letting himself be shoved onto a tiny boat and rocked this way and that, feeling nauseous for more reasons than one.
He’s wrong, Steve knows; feels it in his very soul. Robin is not dead. She’ll come.
She… She will come. She won’t leave him alone, all alone, in this place that has been haunting him for years and years.
She’ll come.
The lighthouse towers above them, perched on top of cliffs that make Steve understand why nobody wanted take him here. There’s no safe way of getting close, let alone climbing up the stairs carved into the cliffs, leading up to the door with no railing, no rope to hold onto. One large wave crashing into him, and he’d belong to the ocean.
He wants to cry again. Wants to curl in on himself and weep as the reality of everything begins to settle in the deepest, darkest places of his heart.
If he leaves the boat, he’ll be trapped with no way of getting out, no way of contacting the land they’ve left far, far behind. Supplies are said to last several months, he knows, he studied the file he got. Several months without human interaction unless Robin magically, wonderfully appears in a few days after all.
“Good luck, kid,” is the last thing he’ll ever hear of Old John as he pulls himself onto the cliffs, reaching for his bags from the old man’s hands. The sea is deafening here as waves crash and burst relentlessly, and he can’t hear what else Old John is saying, but he thanks him and salutes, which the seaman returns with an air of melancholy.
Steve climbs the stairs, soaked to the bones by the splashing water, but somehow — miraculously — malign his way up. As he turns around, fog is starting to gather above the water, but he can make out the tiny silhouette of the boat.
He watches, and it’s meant as a last goodbye, one last glance at his one way out. But terror fills him as he watches, helplessly, powerlessly, as Old John’s boat keels over and disappears. He keeps his eyes fixed to the spot, not daring to look away until there’s proof of life. But Old John doesn’t break the surface again.
And Steve is left filled with horror and the absolute certainty that he might not make it out if he sets foot inside the lighthouse.
Behind him, the door opens with a horrible, terrifying creak, and the beating of his heart is too loud for any other noise to exist in Steve’s world right now.
🌊 part 2 (coming 26 October)
tagging (trading tags for kindness): @klausinamarink @vampeddie @steviesummer @sharpbutsoft @auroraplume
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