[CLICK]
ARCHIVIST
(drained and weak) Let me…go grab a recorder.
MARTIN
Do you really need one?
ARCHIVIST
It would make me feel better about the whole thing. Makes it feel…
MARTIN
Real?
ARCHIVIST
…Important. It is important. To me. Even if…it doesn’t think so.
SASHA
Wait, do you hear something?
PAST ARCHIVIST
…Yes. Like a-a whirring sound?
TIM
Oh, goddammit.
[SOUND OF A TAPE RECORDER BEING SET DOWN ON A LEVEL SURFACE]
MARTIN
(heh) Guess it thinks it’s important, too.
ARCHIVIST
I guess so.
…
MARTIN
Are you gonna say it?
ARCHIVIST
Do you want me to?
MARTIN
I-I mean, I think you have to? If it’s recording…you have to do it the right way or it doesn’t…count. Right?
ARCHIVIST
…Right. You’re right.
Statement of Martin Blackwood, regarding…his travels back in time through the domain of the Spiral. Recorded direct from subject, fourth May, 2016. Statement begins.
MARTIN (STATEMENT)
I think the first thing that struck me was the décor.
Silly, isn’t it? To think that the domain of something that literally thrives on disorientation and chaos would be remotely like I expected it to be? But I did, somehow. There were all the descriptions in all the statements we’ve heard, and then the time Tim and I were trapped in those halls, and I...I really thought they would still look like that.
But they didn’t. There was no patterned wallpaper, no carpet runner, no mirrors or photographs or anything like that. The walls were painted, and they were painted in—in jellybean colors. It’s the best way I can describe it. Really, really bright colors, gloss paint. The floors were...tiled, maybe? Linoleum? I wasn’t quite sure, but they were brightly-colored and kind of shiny, too. Even the ceiling. But none of them matched. When I first stepped through the door, I was standing in the hallway and the wall in front of me was a yellow so bright it almost hurt my eyes, but the floor was red, the same color as Melanie’s nail polish, and the ceiling was a really vibrant green. It was like standing in the middle of a traffic light.
I heard the door close behind me and sort of figured I was alone, but when I turned around, there was the Keeper, and he was taking something out of the door. I think it might have been a key? He put…whatever it was in his pocket and turned to me. I asked him which way to go.
“It doesn’t work that way, I’m afraid,” he told me. “These halls don’t look the same to us. Just start walking. I’ll meet you when you get to the way out.”
And then he was just...gone. It wasn’t like he walked away, or went through a door or whatever. He was just…gone. Like, well, like he faded into fog.
So I started walking. I thought, well, trying to make any sense of this place was sort of going against the point of it, or leaning into the point of it, or something like that. I-I mean, it’s what the Spiral wants, is that increasing sense of panic and desperation as something that ought to be straightforward and logical, something that ought to take you in a straight line or to a particular place or whatever, keeps befuddling you and turning you around and whatnot. So I thought that if I just accepted that I wasn’t going to find any sense of direction, and that I couldn’t actually know where I was, let alone where I would end up, and just sort of wandered for a bit, I’d eventually get where I was going.
Only it didn’t work that way. The walls kept...changing. So did the floor and the ceiling. I’d know I was passing through another part of the corridors when I’d suddenly go from yellow walls to purple to orange, or the ceiling would go from green to pink to blue, or the floor would go from red to white to teal. I didn’t really pay attention to it, but then I realized I was back in the first part of the corridor. I’d have thought it was just a coincidence—I mean, there are only so many colors in the world and so many different combinations of them you can have—but there was the door, looking totally out of place in the bright, sterile lines of the corridor.
So then I started trying other options. I walked along with my eyes closed for a bit, wondering if maybe the colors were leading me astray, but when I opened them again, it was like I hadn’t moved. I tried heading in the other direction but still not thinking about my route. Same effect.
I was getting frustrated, and I was about to yell for the Keeper to just give it up already, to stop messing about with the hallways and lead me through. I was upset, actually. I mean, I knew it wasn’t really his domain, he probably wasn’t the one controlling it, but when you’re that worked up, you just want someone to blame, and he was handy, really. And I—I don’t like not knowing where I am, or where I’m going.
You know, I never really thought about it before, but...Mum used to...when I was younger, we’d be out somewhere, and she’d suddenly tell me there was something we had to do, and to keep up with her, and then she’d start walking really fast and threading through the crowds, and I’d be stumbling along trying to follow her. She wouldn’t hold my hand or anything, she’d just expect me to stay with her. And she’d never tell me where this “something” was, so any time I fell behind or lost sight of her for a second, I’d start panicking, because if I lost her, I wouldn’t know where to meet up with her. I did lose her a couple of times, and I’d just...start crying, and I never knew where to look for help. I felt like that again. Small. Weak. Helpless. Like I couldn’t do anything right, like I couldn’t do this one little thing she’d asked me to do, which was just...keep...up. And there wasn’t anyone there to help me figure out where the person who’d left me behind was, since I didn’t know where to meet up.
That’s when I thought...wait, I don’t know what route I’m supposed to take, but I do know where I’m going. I know what the end result is, just not how to get there. So I stopped thinking about wandering aimlessly and started thinking about wandering with a purpose. I focused on where—and when—we were trying to get. I even closed my eyes for a minute to make sure I was picturing it exactly right. And then I opened my eyes, and I started walking again.
After a while, the hallway started changing, which was how I guessed I was going the right way. The jellybean colors started fading, getting more...muted. Not really pastels, but just less vibrant. They started blending together, too, so they weren’t so weirdly different, like they were hues in a palette. And then they were all grey, featureless stone, like the—well, like the tunnels, only more regular. The grey got darker and darker until suddenly it was almost black. Then there was a carpet up the middle of the stone floor, blood red, and instead of electric lights the walls were lined with torches. I mean actual, fire-burning sticks jammed into wall sconces. I figured I was getting close.
And then...the hallway turned.
Look. I know how those...I know how the Spiral usually works, or at least the Distortion. You can’t see the turns, it looks like it just goes on and on in a straight line forever, because that’s what disorientates you. But this was an actual, L-shaped jog in the corridor. Part of me figured that the Spiral had decided, well, I knew enough to expect certain things, so it would have to throw me off by putting in things I wasn’t expecting—like actual, visible bends in the road. I didn’t doubt that if I tried to go around that corner I’d smack face-first into a wall. But I didn’t doubt for a minute that if I tried to go straight I’d hit a wall, too. You can’t try be logical with the Spiral. You’ll go mad. So I figured the only thing to do was try the corner.
I went around, and...it wasn’t just a hallway. It was more like a...gallery. There were pictures, or paintings, on every wall, in these big, ornate frames, and there was a neat little plaque next to each one with some writing on it. Seemed like it went on forever. I figured...well, it had to be the way through, didn’t it? There wasn’t any other way to go. I assumed there’d be an end eventually, or one of the paintings would be of the door out, or would be the door, or whatever, so I started in.
I looked at the first one, partly because I wondered if I’d recognize the door if I saw it and partly because...well, I was curious. It was very professional-looking. I couldn’t tell if it was a painting or a photograph, actually. It was of a woman, kind of a pretty one really, with her hair pulled up in a high ponytail, and a round face and glasses. She was standing in kind of a dark-ish room, but there was something behind her—a table, maybe? And there was a shadow over her, and she—she was screaming. I wondered who would paint something like that, what they would call it, so I looked at the plaque. It was formatted just like a sign at a museum, with the name of the piece, the name of the artist, and the date of the painting, you know?
But this one...it said, “I See You”, Sasha James, July 29, 2016.
I hadn’t realized what I was looking at, not at first, but when I looked again...it was the shirt that got me. Dupplin checks in shades of pink and purple. You remember—with the ruffled sleeves and the pearl-and-silver buttons. It was Sasha’s favorite, she wore it all the time. And the woman in the picture was wearing it. That’s when it hit me, all of a sudden, that this wasn’t a painting by Sasha, it was a painting of Sasha. I just hadn’t recognized her, and that was...upsetting.
I turned away from it and looked at the next painting, and I got a real shock when I realized it was a picture of Tim. He was smirking. I—I knew that look of his—it’s the one he always used to get when he was teasing someone, you know? That smile of his that seemed to say “I know you want to hit me but you won’t because I’m so funny”? Except...there was something odd about it. An edge, maybe. His eyes were narrowed and it was obvious that he knew whoever he was talking to didn’t find his joke funny, like it was only funny to him. And he—he had the scars. He didn’t tease anyone like that after the attack on the Institute, or if he did, it was...bitter, so I couldn’t figure out who or what he might have been teasing. So I looked at the plaque for that one.
“I Know”, Timothy Stoker, August 7, 2017.
The date. The date’s what hit me. That’s a date I won’t ever forget. I looked back at the picture, and I realized he was holding something in his hand, and the background was...well. There was smoke, and debris, and fire, and it was all starting to—to boil up around him.
I looked back at that first painting, and I saw...things I hadn’t noticed before. I saw that whatever was making the shadow was...reaching for the Sasha in the painting, and I saw...bits, flying around. I realized I was looking at the moment that Sasha saw what was in Artifact Storage with her, and the other picture was the moment between Tim pressing the detonator and—and what came after. I was looking at their deaths.
It was the next one that made me realize what was wrong about it. I mean...I mean, seeing these at all was wrong enough, right? We’re talking instants, split-seconds, something no one should have had time to paint or a good enough camera to photograph. They were almost like someone had flash-frozen the actual, physical moment and put it in a frame. That’s wrong enough, right? But...but it wasn’t until I got to Daisy’s that I actually realized it.
At first blush, it was exactly like the others. That...moment. The plaque. “Basira”, Detective Alice “Daisy” Tonner, date unknown. But...but this one I was there for. I remembered that instant. I might have been...a little distracted at the time, but I was looking when Basira emptied her gun into...into whatever Daisy had become. And I know it—she—was looking at Basira, and that she didn’t recognize anyone else.
But in the picture...she wasn’t looking at Basira. I mean, Basira wasn’t exactly in the picture, any more than the not-Sasha was actually in Sasha’s picture or Nikola was in Tim’s. But you could see where she was, where the bullets were coming from. And Daisy wasn’t looking in that direction. She was looking out, through the painting.
She was—she was looking at me. Directly at me. It was like I was back in that junkyard and she was right in front of me, and she saw me, and she knew me. And she was—she was scared, Jon. I could see it in her eyes. She was scared and she was pleading with me to help her, to save her. Maybe she was accusing me a little. Like she was saying I am dying and you are doing nothing to stop it.
And that’s when it hit me. I hadn’t thought about it before, because I w-wasn’t there for the others when they actually happened, but—but when I looked back at Tim and Sasha, they were looking at me, too. Sasha was scared and Tim was angry and it was clear that they both knew, whenever or—wherever they were, that I was looking at them and that they were dying and I wasn’t doing a damn thing about it.
I—I kept looking. I couldn’t stop. There were dozens—hundreds of them, all of them somebody I cared about, or knew, or—or knew of, at least. A lot of the people from the statements. My mother. My grandfather. Gertrude Robinson. Jurgen Leitner. All of them in the exact moments of their deaths, all of them looking at me with either pleading or accusation or both, and I couldn’t do anything about it.
The corridor went on forever, or that’s what it seemed like. It stretched in both directions and I couldn’t escape it. But there was a doorway, and I—I went through it. I don’t know if I thought it was the way I was supposed to go, or if I just wanted to get away from all the damn pictures, but I went through it. And as soon as I did, the door behind me disappeared, so I figured, okay, I’m going the right way. And it calmed me down, but only for a second.
It was a long, narrow room, maybe big enough for a single person to walk. And there were more framed pictures, evenly spaced, lining one side of the wall. The other side was completely bare. When I came in, I was facing the first picture, so I didn’t even have the option of not looking. So I looked.
At first, it didn’t seem too bad, you know? Nothing...deadly. Just a house, and two people. One of them was standing on the threshold of the house, the other on the path leading up to it. The door was open. The person on the path was a little boy, ten at the most, and he looked—terrified. Upset. It was like he wanted to cry or scream but didn’t know if he was allowed, and he was reaching a hand out desperately. The person on the porch was a young man, and he looked like something had caught him off-guard...and there were threads, thin silver strands, seeming to wrap around him, and something dark leaning out of the open door, like it was going to grab him.
For a moment, I was just relieved that neither of them was looking at me. Whatever was going on in the picture, whatever that poor man was involved in or that poor boy was witnessing, neither one of them blamed me for it. And then I realized I recognized something. The little boy’s face—his eyes. I knew those eyes, better than I knew my own.
My breath caught in my throat. I looked at the plaque. All it had was a title and a year. It Is Polite to Knock, 1996. That’s all it said...but I knew what it was. What I was looking at. And then, when I looked back at the painting, I could see it, very faintly. On the little boy’s outstretched hand was the lightest outline of a spider’s web.
I moved on to the next painting. I don’t think I could have stopped myself. And it was a man, sitting at his desk, a sheaf of papers in front of him and a tape recorder next to it. He had this...vacant look in his eyes, like he was only partly aware of what was in front of him, and he was wearing a cardigan. He had one hand on the papers, holding them up a little so he could read them, and the fingers on his other hand were tangled up in the cuff of the cardigan, like he was stretching it over his fingers and playing with it. The eyes were behind glasses now, but it was very obviously the same man as the little boy in the first picture. The plaque said Statement Begins, 2015. Just over the man’s shoulder was the faintest outline of an eye.
The third one was of the same man. Only this time, he was—he was in pain. His head was thrown back a-and he was screaming, I could almost hear it through the painting. There was another person behind him, another man, and he was screaming too, and standing over them was a woman, o-or what might have been a woman, once, but was honeycombed with white, grotesque worms. There were more of them, and they were—they were attacking the two men, but the one in the foreground, the one who’d been in the other paintings, he was already hurt, and I—I felt so guilty, like it was my fault, even without the man having to look at me and accuse me. He didn’t need to. I was already blaming myself. The plaque said—and it would have made me laugh if I hadn’t been so upset by the picture—it just said Ah, Shit, 2016. There wasn’t an outline of anything in that picture, just what was actually there, or at least actually visible.
I—I was having a bit of trouble breathing at this point. I knew what I was looking at, of course I did, but I couldn’t stop, I had to see all of them, so I looked at the fourth one. It was the same man, in the same office as the second picture, even wearing the same damned cardigan. Scars dotting his face and arms now, hair a little longer and with a bit more grey in it, but still the same man. He wasn’t alone, though. There was another...person there. He didn’t look right, like he’d been put together by someone who only had a partial idea of what a human being looked like. His hands—his fingers—looked like they had knives on the end of them instead of fingernails. He was...grinning, but it looked too big for his face. I think he might have been giggling. It looked like he was giggling. And he—he had one finger buried in the man’s side. The man was crying out in pain, but he also looked upset and scared. The plaque read There Has Never Been a Door There, 2016. There wasn’t a symbol in that one, either.
The fifth one. The same man again. He was shaking hands with a woman. She was smirking, a really nasty smile, malicious delight. He was screaming, like seriously in agony. Where their hands were clasped, there was a faint wisp of smoke coming up, and I swear I could almost smell burning flesh from where I stood. The plaque read Just Shake My Hand, 2017. Still no symbol.
The sixth one. Same man, and another man. The other man had scars, too—Lichtenberg figures, you know? He looked bored. The first man was panicking. It looked like he was trying to scream, but you could sort of tell he wasn’t actually making any sound. And he was free-falling, they both were, but the other man looked...controlled, somehow? It was obvious only one of them was in any real danger, and it wasn’t the one who’d been struck by lightning. The plaque said You Need to Learn Some Respect, 2017. In the sky behind them was the impression of more lightning, but not actual lightning. Just another symbol.
Y—
[SOUNDS OF DISTRESS AND INTERNAL STRUGGLE AS MARTIN AUDIBLY TRIES TO KEEP HIMSELF FROM CONTINUING]
(in a shaking voice) The—the seventh one...oh, God, I almost lost it then and there. It was the same man as in all the other pictures. He was...standing in a clearing. It was dark, and there was—a woman with him. She looked—angry, but also triumphant somehow? She—oh, God, she had him by the throat, and she had a knife pressed against it. There was so much terror in his eyes, and I d-don’t blame him. I was terrified. I wanted to—but I couldn’t do anything. I forced myself to look away from it and look at the plaque. Stop...Asking...Questions, 2017. There was no symbol in that picture, but there didn’t need to be, did there?
The eighth one. The man was bound to a chair, in a dark...warehouse? I guess? It was...actually, if I hadn’t known what it was, and, you know, I hadn’t already been on the verge of a complete breakdown, I might’ve appreciated the painting as being kind of artistic. There were these shadowy figures all around him, but they weren’t people. They were...pretty obviously waxwork mannequins. In front of him was a woman, pretty, but...I don’t know how to explain it. I’m fairly certain she was another mannequin, but she seemed alive, too. She was giving him this...almost impish grin, holding a tape recorder up in front of him. He was gagged, pretty thoroughly, and you could see he was straining against his bindings, and his eyes were panicky. The plaque said I Thought You’d Make a Lovely Frock, 2017. The shadows overhead made up an outline that kind of looked like a mask, one of those blank, featureless ones.
The n-ninth...I think that’s when I started crying. Didn’t look like all that much really, not compared to the others, but it was the man, lying in a grey hospital bed. Perfectly still. All the monitors perfectly flat but one. The plaque read Make Your Choice, 2018. Over the man’s face was a shadow that was...kind of shaped like a scythe.
The tenth. Actually a bit of a relief after that one, although it shouldn’t have been. It was the man and two women. They were in...what looked like a makeshift bunker of sorts. There was a bloody sheet, and the leg on one woman was bleeding. Honestly, it was all kind of chaotic, but the—the focal point was the woman with the bleeding leg, holding something sharp in her hand, jamming it into the man’s shoulder. The plaque said Don’t Touch Me, 2018. It was back to there not being a symbol in the picture.
The eleventh...was bad. There was the man who’d been in all the other pictures, and there was...calling it a man would be charitable. It was a mountain of flesh with a face. Enormous and bulging and...gross. It had its hand in the man’s torso and seemed to be pulling out one of his ribs, which was not a pleasant sight at all, and something about the man’s expression...I don’t think the actual extraction was a surprise, but it was obvious he hadn’t expected it to hurt quite as much as it did. The plaque read Mine Now, 2018. No symbol in this one, either.
The twelfth. It was mostly dark. There was the man, and—and the woman from the seventh painting, the one who...but she was scared in this one. So was he. They were both...pressed under dirt and rocks, and they both looked like they might be struggling to breathe. They were gripping one another’s wrists, not really holding hands, just like they were trying to maintain that contact and not...lose one another. The man had a tape recorder in his other hand. The plaque said There Isn’t Even an Up, 2018. Just barely visible in the dirt above them was the faint outline of a coffin.
The thirteenth. Unlucky number thirteen, but actually, it was the most peaceful one out of all of them. The man was standing in front of an open door. Inside was...black, but it was the purest, richest black you’ve ever seen in your life. He had a look on his face, both awestruck and terrified. The plaque said It’s Beautiful, 2018. There was a symbol overhead—a curved line with four lines coming off of it, like a drawing of a closed eye.
The—the fourteenth. There was the man, standing in the middle of this thick, grey fog. It was swirling all around him. He was...the expression on his face…h-he was panicked and terrified and upset and...all of it. It looked like he might have been about to cry. His teeth were clenched and he was—he was looking around him. Like he was trying to—to find something. The plaque said I Did This to Him, 2018.
I don’t know if there was a symbol in that one. Maybe not. I couldn’t look hard enough, because that was when I broke.
I fell on my knees. I was sobbing and gasping for breath. I was...definitely having a full-on panic attack. There was another painting on the hall, I could feel it, but I was fighting the urge to get up and look at it. I wanted to, something was compelling me to, but I c-couldn’t, because I knew what it would be of. I knew I’d look at it and see the cabin, and the statement, and the look on the man’s face, and the world ending outside the window. I could hear that moment, the rushing of wind, the gathering storm. I swear I could hear the other paintings, too—the gasping and the screaming, worms squirming and crickets chirping, the crash of the ocean and the rush of the wind, beeps and creaks and static, so much static—and it was just...it was just so much.
I was just about to turn around and look, because I couldn’t not, when I heard a voice say, “Enough.”
The noises stopped. I hadn’t realized they were anywhere but in my own head until that moment, but all I could hear then was me. I looked up and...the room had changed. It was plain grey stone, just a small antechamber really. The wall in front of me was blank.
I was still struggling to catch my breath, and I know I was still crying, but I turned and saw the Keeper standing next to me. His arms were crossed over his chest and he was…he was furious.
“If I ever found out who did that, we’re going to have a little...chat,” he growled. “And they won’t like it.” He looked at me for a minute, and then his face kind of softened and he added, “On the other hand, they’ll like having a chat with me more than they’d like having a chat with the Archivist. If he finds them first, I want to be there to watch.”
He helped me up. I was still struggling to get myself back together. The Keeper hugged me for a minute, then turned me around and pointed to a picture on the wall behind me.
“Here,” he said. “Look at this one instead, until you feel better. There’s time.”
This picture...i-it was the same man as in the other pictures, but he looked...he was still tired, but calmer. He wasn’t afraid. Quite the opposite, actually. He was sitting on one end of a ratty old sofa, wearing a sweater that was way too big for him, hair pulled back out of his eyes. He was looking up at—he was looking directly at me, and he was smiling. He was reaching out his hands, one sort of turned under like he was going to be taking something.
I remembered that moment. I could feel it. That first night in the cabin, we’d just had dinner. You’d cooked, so I’d told you to go sit down in the other room while I cleaned up, and then I made tea and brought it out. You were lost in thought at first, but when I came in, you looked up at me and smiled, just like that, and I—I felt safe, for the first time in months.
(heh) That was the first time, wasn’t it? The first time you said the words? I tried to play it off, you looked so startled, but then you recovered and doubled down on it and...
It was a good memory.
I stood there for I don’t know how long, staring at that picture, that moment, letting it push all the other ones I’d seen out of my head. Letting myself remember how it felt. Taking that comfort. I could feel myself relaxing, feel myself starting to smile.
From behind me, I only just heard the Keeper say, “Keep looking, Wickie. Keep the picture in your mind. I’m sorry for this.”
A—and then there came the pain. I don’t know how to describe it. A sudden explosion of—pain, like a migraine on steroids. I felt like something—popped, inside my head, just behind my eyes. No...no, not behind them. Not behind.
I don’t think I screamed. I think I wanted to, but it hurt so bad I couldn’t. The world went white, and I could feel something—not tears, something thicker, more gelatinous—trickling, pouring down my cheeks. It was the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life—the worst physical pain, anyway.
And then everything went black. I guess I passed out. Next thing I knew, I heard a voice calling my name, teasing me about long nights and confusing my hours. I opened my eyes and asked what time it was, and Tim told me it was nine in the morning.
I’m just glad I realized what had happened before I said something stupid about the power being out.
ARCHIVIST
…
Statement ends.
I…
[TEN SECONDS OF UTTER SILENCE, SAVE THE WHIRRING OF THE RECORDER]
TIM
Fuck.
MARTIN
Jon, I’m sorry, I forgot it wouldn’t let me not—
ARCHIVIST
(overlapping) It wasn’t—
MARTIN
—let me skim on the details—
ARCHIVIST
No, it’s not—my God, Martin, I-I had no idea…
MARTIN
…Yeah, well, I told you it would keep you going for a bit.
PAST ARCHIVIST
I—
[RUSTLING, CREAKING NOISE OF SOMEONE GETTING OFF A SOFA WAY TOO FAST]
I—I need—I’ll be—
[RETREATING FOOTSTEPS]
PAST MARTIN
Jon, wait—
[SLIGHTLY DISTANT SOUND OF DOOR OPENING AND SHUTTING]
ARCHIVIST
I’ll go talk to him. Will you—?
MARTIN
We’ll be fine. Just be careful, okay?
ARCHIVIST
I promise.
[CLICK]