Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Down in the tunnels, the worms were fast. They traveled in waves, undulating like liquid, like the squirming parts of a larger creature. They were relentless, and there never seemed to be enough CO2 in a canister for all of them. At some point, all you could do was turn tail and run.

It had been bad enough when Tim was on his own, but now he had Martin and Jon to worry about, and Jon could barely walk on his own.

All he could do was sling one of Jon’s arms over his shoulders and run down the tunnels, half-dragging, half-carrying him as fast as their combined weight would allow. 

(The alternative was leaving Jon behind, leaving someone else to die horribly all alone in the dark—Sasha told him Jon’s real birth date, and Danny would be about his age if he were alive—)

He couldn’t see anything but Martin’s torch beam waving erratically over the tunnel walls, but he could hear the worms gaining on them. They weren’t fast enough.

Suddenly Jon was tugged away from him. Tim stumbled, grabbing for him, but he was already out of reach. Had the worms gotten him? But he wasn’t making a sound—

“Tim, hurry up!” Martin shouted from the same side, and relief lent him renewed energy. Martin had him. Martin was stronger.

They finally escaped through a few more twists in the corridors, and the horrible slithering faded behind them. Tim’s lungs were about to give out by the time they finally slowed to a stop again.

“Jesus,” Tim wheezed, bracing his hands on his knees as he fought for breath. “Fuck. Thanks for that Martin, I wasn’t sure we were getting out of that.”

“Thanks for what?” Martin asked. His torch landed on Tim, then drifted from side to side. “Tim? Where’s Jon?”

Bile rose in Tim’s throat as he looked around with slow, dawning horror. Jon wasn’t with Martin. He wasn’t anywhere.

They’d left him behind.

One moment, Jon had been leaning heavily on Tim as they ran from the swarm, his injured leg sending shocks of pain through him every time he put it down. The next, there were hands grabbing him by the arms and plucking him out of Tim’s grip. It couldn’t be Martin, Martin was ahead of him. Martin’s hands were wider, warmer, not the thin points of ice that suddenly gripped him and pulled.

He opened his mouth to scream. Frigid air rushed down his throat and into his lungs, chilling him to the bone. He braced himself for the feeling of worms burrowing into his flesh.

It never came.

Instead, he found himself standing in a dark tunnel, shivering in the suddenly cold air. Pale shapes moved into his periphery, and he drew back with a whimper of fear. But the mass moved wrong for a swarm of worms. It billowed and curled like smoke, like vapor thick enough to be visible. The sound of wet slithering had vanished; and all was silent. When he took a cautious step forward, even the sound of his shoe on the ground was muted.

Tim and Martin were gone, and so were the worms. He was alone.

Relief was brief before panic set in. He was alone—where was he? Where had the others gone, where had he gone? The mists were getting thicker around him, and when he fumbled his phone out to use the light, it could barely cut through to the nearest stone wall.

He was alone down here, lost, with no food or water or—

“Could you stop that? Makes it hard to think.”

Jon froze.

The voice was not Tim or Martin’s. It also wasn’t Jane Prentiss’s. It was a man, best he could tell, and it echoed oddly in a way the tunnels didn’t quite account for. Jon and the others had talked throughout their trek underground, and the old stonework hadn’t made them sound quite like the muted echo he was hearing now.

Slowly, he turned around. All he could see was fog.

“Hello?” he called out. “Who’s there?”

“Could ask you the same thing.” He couldn’t pinpoint where the voice was coming from. It was coming from the fog, but the fog was everywhere. “You’re the one who came down here.”

“Where are you?” Jon pressed. “Where are the others? The worms?”

“Not here.” The voice was behind him.

Jon whipped around, nearly falling when he put too much weight on his injured leg. Cold hands steadied him—the same hands that had pulled him away from Tim. Shivering, he found his balance again and stepped back to look at the person touching him.

How had he gotten so far away already? There was too much fog between them for Jon to make out any distinguishing features, beyond a vague impression of a tall figure with long hair and a long coat. The more Jon tried to focus on him, the less of him he saw.

“What do you mean, not here?” Jon demanded. “I was just with them—”

“And now you’re not. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“You’re welcome?” Jon shot back. Fear made his temper short. “Oh yes, I’m hopelessly lost and separated from the others, how helpful of you.”

“Well,” the man said dully. “None of you have fallen to the Filth. So yeah. You’re welcome.”

That was an odd way to refer to Jane Prentiss and her worms—the ‘filth’—but certainly an accurate one. Jon could still feel the crunch and pop of worm bodies beneath his feet.

“Alright,” he said, shivering again with more than cold. “Alright, fine. What now? How do I get back to them? How—how do I get out?”

“First one’s up to you, I guess. I don’t know where your friends are, but I know how to get out.” The man paused. Then— “Huh. Haven’t felt that in a while. What happened to Gertrude?”

“Gertrude?” Jon echoed. “Gertrude Robinson? She’s—she’s my predecessor, she’s… well, missing, but…”

“Dead.” It was almost a whisper. “She’ll be dead then, if you’re here.”

“ What? Who are you?”

“No one important.”

Grinding his teeth, Jon seethed. “Fine—fine, then. How do I find the others? Is there a way out of this place?”

“You shouldn’t,” the man said flatly. “You really shouldn’t. It isn’t safe.”

“You don’t have to tell me that!” Jon snapped. “I know it isn’t safe, but I have to get back to them—”

“There’s so much out there,” the man went on as if Jon hadn’t spoken. “The flesh hive is one hungry thing among many. It isn’t safe.”

“I don’t care! I need to get out of here!” Panic gripped him. Would he be trapped here forever—in this fog, in these tunnels, with nothing but a cryptic apparition for company?

Without warning, the fog thrashed. There was a sharp hiss of breath, and for a split second he could see eyes—as gray as the fog, wide with sudden alarm.

“ Shit. ” The voice gasped as if fighting for breath, and the fog rose up and overtook everything else. Jon flinched back—

And then he opened his eyes to find stone walls all around him. No fog, no chill in the air, no figure lurking just out of reach. Just stones and darkness.

Trembling, Jon fumbled out his phone and switched on the light. He cast it this way and that, searching for any trace of fog or worms or strange figures. Nothing. He was alone.

“H-hello?” he called out. HIs voice was thin. There was no answer.

And then his light swept over the ceiling above him, illuminating the unmistakable shape of a trapdoor. Relief and hope cut through the fear that gripped him. There it was—a way out. He didn’t know where Tim and Martin were, but if he got out, then maybe he could find help. A search party could be arranged, or—or something. He’d make sure of it. He’d come back and search himself if he needed to.

Except. He had no way of knowing where this door would lead to, did he? For all he knew, he’d come right back around to the institute basement, and there was nothing waiting above him but Jane Prentiss and a fresh tide of worms.

Jon remembered the tape recorder in his pocket. He’d switched it off at some point and forgotten about it—damn it all, he should have recorded his earlier encounter.

“There’s—there’s a trapdoor here,” he said once he’d pressed record. “Tim and Martin are gone, I—something happened. We were separated. I encountered someone, or something. But there’s a trapdoor here, and I don’t know where it leads. I hope it’s somewhere safe, but with my luck…”

He heaved a sigh, braced himself, and opened the trapdoor.

He’d barely inched it open when it was lifted out of his reach, and the slick sound of worms filled the stale air.

Jane Prentiss smiled down at him. “Hello, Archivist.”

He was already screaming when the worms descended.

In the aftermath of the attack, Jon threw himself into what little work he could accomplish from the outside, with nothing but the tape recorder and his own voice. Elias had protested but given in out of sheer impatience. Sasha had been cooperative, but she seemed distracted.

Tim and Martin had emerged from the tunnels together, both of them pale and shaken. They hadn’t let go of each other until Jon pressed them for statements, at which point Tim had snapped at him and stormed off to sulk.

This was necessary, Jon told himself. He needed to document everything he could, and if Tim couldn’t see that, then… then what did that mean about Tim? Was there a reason he didn’t want to tell Jon about what happened?

Never mind that Jon already knew the broad strokes. That only made Tim’s reticence even more  concerning.

“Jon, are you sure you can’t just go home?” Martin was almost pleading with him, which was a step above his seeming panic when Tim first left his side. “You—you look awful. And I don’t mean—I’m just worried.”

“For someone who wants me to go home, you’re wasting an awful lot of time,” Jon said waspishly.

Martin’s face did a maneuver that was either a scowl or a flinch, Jon couldn’t tell which. “Alright. What do you want to know?”

“What happened after we were separated?”

Martin heaved a sigh. “Well, we were running from the worms, and Tim—Tim had you. But when we finally got away and had a chance to breathe, we both realized you weren’t there, and—” He broke off, breathing shakily. “I-I’m sorry. I’m so sorry we left you. Tim was horrified—”

“It’s fine,” Jon broke in. “Really. It wasn’t your fault, or Tim’s.”

“I just don’t know what happened ,” Martin went on. “I know you were leaning on Tim, but when we stopped, Tim said he thought I’d taken you from him.”

“I…” The memory of his encounter was at the forefront of his mind, practically pressing up against the backs of his eyes. He thought about explaining it, but something held him back, told him to keep it to himself for now, just in case. Just in case of what, he wasn’t sure. “We just got separated in the confusion. I found my own way back. We’re all alive, so—so there’s no point in worrying about it.”

Martin nodded reluctantly. “A-anyway, we tried to look for you, but eventually all we could do was just sort of wander around the tunnels. Neither of us would admit it, but we got lost down there. I think we were both afraid to say it out loud. I don’t know how far we walked, but—but it was for hours, so it must have been miles.”

“And then?” Jon prompted.

Martin looked away. “You know what happened then.”

“I don’t know the details.”

Martin’s face scrunched up, but Jon couldn’t quite read his expression—discomfort? Reluctance? Annoyance at the interrogation? Tough. “We—it’s just hard to explain. Some weird stuff happened, and… and I’m not sure I can explain all the details. We were just walking, and then suddenly it got colder. I don’t know why, maybe there’s some science to it, like air flow underground or—or whatever. But it wasn’t just cold, it was wet . That’s what really stood out to me. I could see my breath, and the air felt wet, like when it’s really foggy in the morning, you know? And then suddenly there was fog.”

“Fog?” Jon echoed.

“Yeah. I don’t know how it was possible. Tim—Tim was making jokes about ghosts.” Martin let out a shaky laugh. “It stopped being funny when—I could’ve sworn I saw someone up ahead. A figure. I didn’t get a good look, it was dark and my torch could only light up so much and there was fog everywhere, but… I thought I saw someone standing there. But Tim said he didn’t see anything, and when we got to the spot, there was no one. Just a closed door.” He stopped.

“Martin,” Jon said. “What was behind the door?”

“It was her body,” Martin said in a rush. “Gertrude Robinson’s body. She was just—just sitting there, in a chair, all… all dried up and—” He broke off. “There were boxes all around, but before you ask, we didn’t look in them because we were preoccupied with the dead woman in the room.”

“And how did she die?” Jon asked.

“Jon—”

“Last question,” Jon told him.

“She was shot. Three times in the chest.” Martin looked sick. “But… but she wasn’t shot there in that room. I remember that thought sticking in my head. She couldn’t have been shot there. No blood.”

Jon wanted to press more—what other morbid insights had Martin come up with, was he sure he hadn’t seen anything interesting in the boxes—but Martin looked faint and unhappy, and the last thing Jon needed was two of his assistants storming away from him today. So he finally left Martin alone, steeling himself for the inevitable argument when he tracked down Tim.

Later that night, in the relative safety of his flat, Jon drew out the tape recorder again.

“Martin saw the same apparition that I did,” he said, breathless with something that was either fear or excitement. “I’m sure of it. Irritatingly light on details, as per usual, but—it’s too much of a coincidence. The fog, the unnatural cold, it has to be the same figure.”

He stopped for breath, pacing his living room with nervous energy.

“Martin saw him standing right outside the room that held Gertrude Robinson’s body,” he went on. “He knew she was there, he had to have known. But who is he? What is he? Is he—God, is he a ghost? He certainly looked the part.” His pacing slowed. “He tried to keep me down there. He—he didn’t want me to leave, but then I demanded it, and he… left me right at the trapdoor. Unless I was already at the trapdoor when he first arrived—but no. I had to have gone somewhere else, or I’d have been eaten by worms.” His stomach lurched. “Well. Eaten by worms a bit sooner, at least.”

“Someone killed Gertrude Robinson,” he continued. “And it wasn’t worms, it wasn’t a monster or a ghost or anything like that. Whatever it was, it used a gun. Whoever they were, they were human. And the ghost in the tunnels knew where she was.”

“I wonder if he knew her,” he said quietly. “I wonder if—no. There’s no point in random guessing. I need to know more.”

He stopped in the middle of his living room and caught his breath, but no amount of deep breathing could dispel the dread growing in the pit of his stomach.

“I need to go back down there.”

Getting back down was the easy part, Jon found. The hard part was everything that came after.

In spite of the protests of Elias and his assistants alike, Jon was back in the office as soon as he was physically able. He attended his physical therapy appointments dutifully enough—he couldn’t accomplish what he wanted if he didn’t have his full range of motion—but the thought of sitting at home and doing nothing was downright unbearable. The others might be concerned—

Well. They might be concerned. Gertrude had been moldering beneath their feet for months, and someone had to have put her there. Jon couldn’t access the security footage, so as far as he knew, his assistants and his boss were as likely as anyone else.

(He didn’t want it to be them. He desperately didn’t want any of them to be her killer.)

The trapdoor had been left unlocked by whatever cleaning crew had gone in to clear out Prentiss and the dead worms. On his first day back, Jon took two torches with extra batteries, some water and protein bars, and a tape recorder. He considered taking some paper and attempting to map the tunnels, but decided against it. He didn’t even know where to begin with a project like that.

The tunnels were much the same as he remembered. The area beneath the trapdoor, the spot where he’d fallen beneath a shower of pale, writhing worms, had thankfully been cleaned. He cast about with his light for several minutes and found no trace of dead parasites or his own blood. He still felt off-kilter until he turned away from the spot and moved on.

After a certain distance, he began to see worms again. All of them were dead, of course, but it seemed as if the cleaners had given up at a certain point and turned back. Jon even found the strange doorway that Tim had described when pressed, now a motionless pattern on the ground. Jon stopped just long enough to take a picture before moving on again.

He hoped to find the fog again, to walk far enough into the tunnels to reach the place where the temperature dropped and the air grew wet. But on his first trip, in spite of his best efforts, the tunnels remained as dry and stale as ever.

“Is this what I’ve come to?” he asked out loud. “Wandering around in the dark, searching for cold spots?” He snorted to himself. If Melanie King could see him now, she’d point and laugh.

The next few forays underground proved equally fruitless. His attempts at mapping the place went nowhere; either the tunnels were moving around while he wasn’t looking, or he was just that terrible at cartography. A few times he found chalk marks on the stonework, arrows and markers that he hadn’t left. Had someone been down there once, struggling to find their way as he was? Was someone still down there?

Besides the ghost, of course.

The others slowly trickled back in. Sasha returned first, greeting him politely enough before returning to her work as if nothing had happened. Martin was next, jittery and overly-polite, even more eager to be helpful than he had ever been before. Jon saw the fresh cup of tea waiting at his desk before he saw Martin himself.

He didn’t drink it. Too risky.

Tim was the last to come back, greeting them all cordially, cracking jokes, grinning from ear to ear. There was something desperate about it, something the rest of them could all see, but Tim rebuffed all of Martin’s attempts at probing concern.

It was all wrong, wasn’t it? They were all acting like nothing had happened, or at least trying. Why weren’t they doing more, reacting more? How could they all be so calm about this? Why weren’t they as terrified as he was?

So many questions, and he didn’t like the answers that he came up with. 

Their return brought the need for extra caution in his endeavor. There was no advantage to telling them; either they were innocent and wouldn’t understand, or they weren’t and he was right to be suspicious of them. Behind his closed office door he took notes on what he recalled and what Martin had described— Fog, Temperature changes, Emptiness, Apparitions . Armed with a list of elements, he slipped into the stacks and searched through the statements they had managed to put in order already. He found a few that rang familiar, but nothing that fit perfectly. He kept copies anyway.

It was a while before he felt ready to risk entering the tunnels again. Before, he could do so freely, but now he was forced to wait until the others had gone home. He kept a careful watch of them as they left. Sasha was the first to go, at four-fifty exactly, her goodbyes short and to the point. Tim tried to pull her into a conversation and was politely rebuffed. Looking put out, he spent the next five minutes chatting with Martin instead, before packing up his own things for the day.

He stopped at Jon’s office, nudged the cracked door further open, and knocked on the frame. “About to head out, boss,” he said. “I take it you’re staying until nine in the evening again?”

“I’ll stay as long as I need,” Jon replied.

“Come on, Jon, you—”

“Good evening, Tim.”

Something flickered across Tim’s face that Jon didn’t quite catch, and he left without another word.

Martin stayed until half past five before coming to Jon’s door. “Jon, you really should leave.” His gentle disapproval was clear enough, and Jon found himself bristling.

“There’s more I need to get done today.”

“I doubt it can’t wait until tomorrow,” Martin pressed. “Come on, it’s bad enough you came back to work weeks before the rest of us.”

Jon fidgeted uncomfortably. They were awfully preoccupied with what time he left; they always were. And it was couched with gentle concern, but—

(But what if there was more? What if there was a reason they didn’t want him staying late, investigating, looking for answers while they weren’t there—)

“My hours are none of your concern,” Jon informed him, and before Martin could argue, added, “I will see you tomorrow.”

Martin sighed. “Just—don’t forget to eat? Goodnight, Jon.” He left, and Jon breathed a sigh of relief.

Jon waited ten minutes in solitude before gathering what he needed and heading straight for the trapdoor. In the tunnel below, he picked a direction and started walking.

A half an hour in, Jon knew that something was different. He was wearing the same amount of layers as usual, but he found himself shivering. In the light of his torch he could see his breath make clouds. He chased the feeling, hurrying further into the cold, and soon enough there was a thin layer of fog rolling over his feet. He could still see the ground beneath it, but it was more than he’d ever found before.

What had he done differently? Where had he gone? He’d given up trying to map this place early on.

So great was his initial excitement that it took him a while to slow down and remember that he needed to find his way back. Turning around, Jon doubled back to find a good spot to mark his route… and found himself at a T intersection.

He stopped, staring, sweeping his light from side to side. Where had this come from? He’d been following one main tunnel since he started. He hadn’t made any turns. But he hadn’t come this way, either.

It was so much easier to panic when he was already cold.

Jon ran. He did not call out, he did not scream. The only sounds he could hear were his own footsteps and quickened breaths, muted as if by the growing blanket of fog. The tunnels had always seemed to change between his trips, but they had never changed while he was still in them.

Eventually he had to stop and catch his breath. Each gasp brought more cold, wet air into his lungs, chilling him on the inside as well as out. He waved his torch around, searching for any landmark, any sign of familiar passages, but all the light could reach was blank stone and fog and emptiness—

“You keep coming down here,” the voice spoke behind him. “I don’t know what you expect to find.”

Jon choked back a gasp of relief and turned around. The fog was still thick, and the figure stood just barely within the reach of the torch.

“Could—” Jon’s voice cracked, and he paused and tried again. “Could you come closer? I can’t see you very well.”

“That’s the idea.”

Jon stepped forward. “I spoke with my assistants,” he said. “One of them—he saw you, before they found Gertrude Robinson’s body.”

There was no reply.

“That was you, wasn’t it?” Jon pressed.

“Does it matter?”

“Y-yes!” No matter how many steps he took toward the apparition, he never seemed to get any closer. “If you knew where she was—did you know her? Do you know who killed her?”

The figure made a noise that was either a hum or a sigh. “Questions like that are funny. No one really knows anyone, if you really think about it. I didn’t know her. She didn’t know me. No one ever did. For either of us, I think.”

“Who are you?” Jon asked desperately.

“No one,” was the reply.

“You have to be someone!”

“I really don’t. And even if I am, I won’t be for long.” The apparition sighed, stirring more fog between them. “You should leave, before that happens. It’s not safe now. It’ll be even less so, when I’m fully no one.”

Jon ground his teeth, frustrated. He’d finally found the apparition again, and it refused to tell him anything but riddles. He reached for the bag he’d brought, dug past the water and extra torch and protein bars, and pulled out the folder he’d taken from his desk.

“I-I’ve been trying to figure out… what you are,” he said. “I don’t know where to begin on ‘who’, especially since you won’t tell me. I’ve been trying to find anything like you in the statements.”

“Oh?” the figure sounded uninterested.

“I haven’t found anything that fits perfectly,” Jon went on. “But I’ve found some… well I’ve found a few things that feel close.” He opened the folder; the first statement was a tape. “0161301. A woman drove home from her fiance’s funeral and got lost, alone and surrounded by fog, until she abruptly found herself back where she started.” He turned to the next. “Statement 0121102. Two burn victims were brought into the A&E, and a nurse witnessed strange phenomena before getting lost in seemingly endless empty hallways—when she got back, one of the men was dead, and the other was nowhere to be found.” The next. “Statement 0110201. A woman working on a ship was ordered into a lifeboat with the rest of the crew, save one. She saw fog surround the ship, and when it receded and they returned to the ship, the one crew member was never seen again.”

He closed the folder with shaking hands. Across the way, the figure watched him silently.

“W-well?” Jon called out. “Is that—do those events have anything to do with… with what you are?” He closed the folder and pressed it to his chest.

For a while, there was silence. Jon tried to keep his breathing quiet, but when it was all he could hear, it might as well have been deafening.

“It won’t save you,” the figure said at last. “The knowing. It didn’t save me, and it didn’t save her.”

“Who? Gertrude?” No answer. “E-even if it doesn’t save me, at least it’s more than the nothing I had before. And I know it can’t be a coincidence—there has to be some kind of connection between you and the events in the real statements—”

“I’m not real,” the figure told him.

Jon faltered. “Y-you have to be. I can see you. M-mostly.” He swallowed hard, throat bobbing nervously. “Are you sure you can’t come closer?”

The fog was beginning to rise.

“Does it call to you too?” the figure asked. “The fog and silence and solitude? Every time you come down, you come alone.”

“I—I have to,” Jon replied. “The others… what do you mean, does it call to me? Is the fog—is it part of you? Is it some kind of separate entity?” He hesitated. “You are a ghost, aren’t you?”

Fog swept by him like an icy breeze, and the figure vanished. Jon whirled around, trying to follow the voice, but the figure was too pale, too indistinct—

“Wait!” He broke into a run. “Wait, don’t—don’t leave me here—”

The fog rose up, overtaking his vision until he was forced to stop.

“You shouldn’t come here.” The figure spoke by his ear. “Not alone. Not at all. I don’t know how long I can keep sending you back.”

The fog thickened around him, freezing and wet. For a moment Jon felt as if he was drowning.

And then it was gone.

Jon gasped quietly for air. His eyes adjusted, and the tunnel around him seemed to melt back into place. Up ahead, he could see light shining down from the open trapdoor.

The light didn’t help, nor did the comparative warmth. It was only when Jon left the institute and joined the people in the streets and tube station beyond it that he finally began to feel safe again.

He’d never been so grateful for the stifling press of bodies on the train.

Despite everything, business in the archives carried on. Statements were recorded. Follow-up research was carried out. Jon continued to keep an eye on his assistants. No change there, only unanswered questions. Sasha was pulling away. Tim was growing irritated with him. Martin continued to make tea and niceties, but the signs of strain were showing.

And Jon couldn’t be entirely sure that none of them had anything to do with Gertrude’s death. He searched for proof, for whatever the opposite of a smoking gun was, desperate to quiet the clawing fear in his chest, but his stolen glimpses into their lives provided no relief.

A small victory came with PC Basira Hussain; he managed to strike a deal with her for the tapes that were found around Gertrude’s body, in exchange for transcripts and any other information he managed to find. She could only bring them one at a time, but any lead was better than none.

His visits to the tunnels grew less frequent. The man in the fog did not reappear, but every now and then the temperature would drop, or Jon would catch a wisp of fog in his periphery, and the watched feeling began to follow him down into the dark. 

And then he found it.

It was not on one of the tapes from Basira, nor did he discover it in the tunnels. It was just a statement. Years old, lost among the rest of the mess of the Archives. He read it, recorded it, and passed it on to his assistants.

As soon as he was able, he grabbed the torch he kept in his desk, slipped down into the tunnels, and took off at a run.

He ran until he was gasping for breath and kept walking after that, sweeping the light back and forth until he caught sight of a wisp of fog. He followed it to another, then another, and finally came to a halt ankle-deep in gathering mist.

Jon took a deep breath, trying to steady his racing heart.

“Gerard?” he called out. “Gerard Keay?”

The fog rushed in to surround him.

Jon flinched, eyes shutting on instinct. When he opened them, the fog had crept up the walls, and the familiar pale figure was standing closer than he ever had before.

Jon caught his breath. “That’s your name,” he said. “Isn’t it? I was right before. Lesere Saraki’s statement—the fog in the hospital, the burn victim who disappeared—that was you.”

The figure didn’t move. Between the shadows and the fog, Jon couldn’t quite make out the face, but the long hair and coat were visible, and now they rang familiar.

“Where did you hear that name?” The voice—Gerard’s voice?—was as dull and emotionless as ever.

“I found a statement,” Jon replied. “Andrea Nunis, 2010. She was in Genoa.” Jon took a step closer. “Do you remember her?”

This time, instead of staying motionless at a distance, the figure seemed to shrink back. It was strange; that single motion carried more feeling in it than anything Jon had ever seen him say or do before.

“Genoa…” The word was a whisper; with the dampening effect of the fog, it was nearly inaudible. “There was—there was a woman. She was marked. Lonely.”

“She got lost,” Jon said. “First in a crowd of people with no faces, and then in fog. You found her in the fog, and told her to think of her mother.”

Silence. Then—

“She made a statement?” The dull tone was receding, giving way to a cautious hope. The fog responded, swirling around the figure, obscuring him further. “She—came here?”

“She escaped,” Jon told him. “She followed your advice. It saved her, Gerard.”

He heard—just barely—a soft intake of breath. For a moment, the fog receded, and Gerard Keay raised his head and looked at Jon.

He was tall, maybe a bit taller than Tim but shorter than Martin, with damp hair that hung past his shoulders. At some point in the past it had been dyed, but the black color had faded and dulled, and the roots had grown out. Jon tried to make out the original color, but everything looked gray in the fog and darkness. He was dressed in a long leather coat, and the black shirt underneath had some image or logo over the chest that had long ago cracked, peeled, and flaked away, leaving nothing but an unreadable blur.

It was a far cry from what Dominic Swain and Lesere Saraki described. But Jon had long abandoned any belief in coincidences.

“I told you not to come here anymore,” Gerard said, almost accusing. “You need to stop coming here.”

Jon shook his head. “I can’t . Do you know how few leads I have? You’re the only person I’ve met who has any inkling of what’s going on.”

“I vaguely remember telling you that knowing won’t save you.”

“Save me from what?” Jon pressed. “What is this? What is any of this?”

“You’re the Archivist. Why don’t you already know?”

“Oh, believe me,” Jon gritted out. “If I’d known taking this job would mean being chased by worms and possibly menaced by my predecessor’s murderer, I’d have been happy to stay in Research.”

“Bit late for that now.”

“Yes, I know,” Jon sighed. “But I’m here now, so all I can do is just… make the best of it. Try to protect myself from whatever comes next.”

Gerard was silent for a while. Every breath sent clouds of more fog to join the rest. In spite of that brief moment of clarity, he was fading again in Jon’s sight.

“You can’t,” he said eventually. “Not really. Not in any way that matters.”

Jon shuddered. “There—there has to be more to it than that.”

“There’s a lot to it. None of it will help you.” Gerard closed his eyes. “Go home, Archivist. There’s nothing to find down here.”

“There’s you!” Jon argued.

There it was again, a moment of clarity—Gerard’s face, clearly visible in spite of the dearth of color.

“What year is it?” Gerard asked.

Something about the question, and the way he asked it, sent an extra chill down Jon’s spine. “It’s 2016.”

“Huh. Kind of surprised I’ve lasted this long.” Another sigh sent fog swirling around him again. “Kind of disappointed, too.”

“What do you mean?” Jon asked. “A-are you dead? Fading? Or moving on?”

“Take your pick.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

A flash of irritation crossed Gerard’s face, just for a moment. “Why do you keep bothering me?” he asked. “You're the Archivist. Don’t you have assistants you can torment instead?”

Jon hesitated.

“...No assistants?” Gerard’s face went blank again. “Hm. She didn’t either. She was alone too, at the end.”

“I mean, I-I do,” Jon said hesitantly. “But I can’t—I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

“Rely on them,” said Jon. “Yet. Not until I’m sure that—that none of them had anything to do with what happened to Gertrude.”

“You think one of them killed her?” Gerard’s voice was laced with faint amusement.

“Do you know who did?” Jon asked. “You knew where she was, do you… You didn’t kill her, did you?”

“Is there anything in your pockets?”

Jon hesitated, startled by the question. “I—yes? Just keys, my phone…”

A pale hand stretched out toward him, close enough for Jon to get a good look. The tattoos that Lesere Saraki described were just barely visible, an eye on each knuckle. The ink was so faded that Jon almost missed them entirely. He couldn’t help but notice the way the moisture in the air clung to them, droplets shining like tears.

“Go on,” Gerard said. “Put something in my hand.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Jon dug out his keys and cautiously reached out to place them in the outstretched hand.

They hit the stone floor with a clatter.

Gerard’s hand dropped back to his side. “Can’t very well hold a gun and shoot her, can I.”

Jon’s relief was still edged with doubt. “I suppose—you can’t now. But you haven’t always been like this. I know you haven’t. You’ve shown up in several statements from years back, and you were perfectly solid then.”

“Yeah… yeah I was.” Faded black hair fell over Gerard’s face, damp from the chill and mists. “It’s funny…”

“I don’t see anything funny about it,” Jon said quietly.

Gerard shook his head. Jon caught a glimpse of faded gray eyes before he spoke. “What… what world did you grow up in, Archivist?” he asked. “Was it this one? Full of horrors and hungering things?”

“N-no,” Jon replied. “Not… not for the most part. There was one thing, but…” The memory of spindly legs reaching through the doorway rose unbidden in his mind. “There was just the one. I didn’t grow up with all of this.”

“It’s funny,” Gerard said again. “I did. I lived and breathed the horrors. I caught glimpses of the world beyond it, happy and ignorant in its illusion of safety. I grew up hating and longing for a world that I could never touch.” He held out his pale, translucent hands. “And now I can’t touch anything at all.”

“What are you?” Jon didn’t mean to whisper the question, but a whisper was all that he could manage.

“Nothing. No one.” The fog gathered around him again. 

“You have to be something—”

“I am the endpoint of isolation.” Jon could barely see Gerard’s face anymore. “You said before—the woman in Genoa. She followed my advice? She thought of her mother?”

“She—yes. She escaped. One of my assistants found her, she’s living in Bristol now. She’s fine.”

“But here you are, down in the dark and the fog, with no one to pull you out,” said Gerard. “You have people. Let them. Not all of us are that lucky.”

“I-I can’t. Not yet. Not until I know that they didn’t—”

“You can’t know. Not really. No one really knows anyone.” A sad smile flitted across the fading face. “And even if one of them is a killer, at least you’ll only be dead.”

“Gerard—”

“But if no one notices when you’re gone,” Gerard whispered. “Did you ever really exist at all?”

The fog overtook Jon again, and the feeling of being hopelessly lost nearly overwhelmed him.

“Stop coming here,” Gerard whispered in his ear, moments before he found himself at the trapdoor again. 

“I’ve been here a long time. One day I’ll stop letting you leave.”

Every instinct screamed at Jon that he was in danger.

Could he really be blamed for feeling that way? Michael’s laughter still rang in his ears, and the twisting sensation in his skull made him dizzy and sick. He was bleeding from the wound it had left in his arm. Martin was looming over him, and Jon felt half his size.

“— Christ , Jon, what happened? I thought you were taking a statement just now!”

He reached for him, and Jon shrank back on instinct. A dozen different possible lies crowded on the back of his tongue. I was, and she stabbed me and ran out. I had an accident with a letter opener. With the scissors. With the bread knife in the break room.

He would tell whatever lie he had to, just to keep Martin from touching him. Just to make him go away.

“Jon, it’s okay, just let me see it—God, that’s a lot of blood, you need to get to the clinic—”

Jon opened his mouth to say Yes, you’re right, I’ll go right now by myself.

And then his mind leapt ahead to the thought. Stumbling out of the institute, making his way through the London streets injured and alone. A memory joined his little vision of the future—of fog and darkness, and the bone-deep knowledge that no one else was there, and no one would hear him calling for help.

Jon came back to himself gasping with panic, his back pressed to the wall by the sink. Martin stood over him, his face full of concern, reaching for his injured arm.

“Don’t touch me!” Jon blurted out.

Martin drew back as if Jon had struck him. His hands were still up, but in a placating motion, not a reaching one. “Jon. It’s okay.” His voice was soft. “It’s just me. You’re safe.”

No I’m not, Jon wanted to scream. I haven’t been safe in a long time.

“Look, just—here.” Martin undid the buttons of his cardigan, shrugged out of it, and held it out. “You need to stop the bleeding first.” Jon stared at him blankly. “Look, it’s fine, it was like eight quid at a charity shop and I’ve got others.”

Slowly, Jon reached out and took it. He couldn’t hold back a noise of pain when he pressed the fabric to the wound.

“Okay.” Martin relaxed slightly. “That’s good. So. Clinic?”

You have people. Not all of us are that lucky.

Jon nodded tightly, and let Martin lead him out.

Ten stitches later, when he and Martin were sitting in the breakroom with two cups of tea between them, Jon took a deep breath.

Let them.

“It was Michael,” he said.

“What?”

“Remember—Sasha’s statement? Before Prentiss?” Jon kept his eyes on the mug. “I’d show it to you, but I can’t find the tape.”

“Wait—the distorted guy? With the… sharp hands…” 

Jon nodded.

“The woman who came in to make a statement,” he went on. “Helen Richardson—she met him. She escaped, but… but he took her back.”

“Jesus, Jon.”

Jon shut his eyes. The truth was out, and it hadn’t killed him yet. Maybe there was something to this after all.

The recording ended, and Jon shut the tape off. For a while he simply stared at it, at a loss for words.

He rewound it and listened to it again, start to finish. He closed his eyes, and imagined he could see the speaker before him, smiling over the memory of blood.

His first instinct was to go down into the tunnels again. That was what he did the last time he stumbled upon a breakthrough like this. He certainly had enough questions.

But even though he hadn’t seen Gerard since their last conversation, he still heard the man’s—ghost’s?—many warnings as clear as if they had happened yesterday. Warnings against coming back, against being alone. Warnings about Gerard himself, punctuated with that awful suffocating fog.

Jon passed his hand over his face, and realized that he didn’t want to go back down again. Not alone.

But the alternative carried its own set of complications. Things were alright with Martin, but Martin was still wary of him since their conversation about his CV ( and why wouldn’t he be, after Jon screamed at him over a letter he’d stolen from the trash ). Tim was even worse, snappish and belligerent ever since that awful intervention, never mind that Jon had stayed away from him ever since ( and maybe that was part of the problem? ) And Sasha continued to pull further and further away.

To bring them in now would be to admit how much he’d been hiding from them. It could send the fragile peace crashing down.

( Or it could shore it up stronger than it was before. )

Jon pushed the tape recorder away and pressed his forehead down into his hands, pushing until his fingers were tangled in his hair.

There was no point. He’d made his bed already, and Gerard could give him all the warnings he wanted but it was useless when Jon was already alone —

His office door creaked slightly as it was pushed open. “Jon?” Martin poked his head in. “Are you busy?”

“What is it, Martin?” Jon asked without looking up.

“Just wanted to know if you were free to do lunch,” Martin answered. “It’s about that time.”

Slowly, Jon raised his head. Martin was halfway into his office, his coat hanging off his arm. The expression on his face was… hopeful. Jon had gone with him enough times to give him a reason to be hopeful when he asked.

“Jon?” Martin prompted.

“Are the others still here?” Jon asked.

“Um—no? Well. Sasha already went out. Tim’s here.” Martin glanced back as if checking. “Why—Jon?”

Jon was already out of his chair, grabbing his coat and the tape recorder and brushing past Martin at a brisk walk. “Tim?”

Tim was at his desk, slouching over a statement folder. “Yeah?”

“Martin and I are going to lunch—” Jon began.

“Good for you.”

“You’re coming too.”

Tim looked up, briefly surprised, before his expression darkened. “Decided you need to watch me like a hawk during work hours too?”

Jon winced. “Er, no,” he replied. “I’m—no. But there’s something I need to tell you both. It’s important.”

“Wait, what?” By this point, Martin had stepped back out into the main bullpen as well. “What’s going on?”

“Tim,” Jon said quietly. Tim stared back, his expression stony. “I—please. I need your help. I… I don’t think I can do this alone.”

Tim stared at him for a moment more, then raised his head to look at the ceiling. HIs eyes shifted from side to side as if searching.

“Tim?” Jon said cautiously.

“Hang on,” Tim replied. “Checking for flying pigs.”

“ Tim. ”

Jon wasn’t quite trusting enough to do this in the statement canteen, but the cafe where he and Martin usually went was open, and currently the perfect level of crowded to drown out their conversation against potential eavesdroppers.

Once the both of them were sitting before him expectantly, Jon found himself faltering. Wrenching himself open after months of fearing for his life was bad enough, but where to even begin?

“So…” Tim let the word draw out. “Did you bring us out here to grill us on something again, or…?”

“What? No.” Jon blinked at him. “Why would you think that?”

“Last time you sat me down in front of a tape recorder was just after Prentiss,” Tim said flatly.

“Oh. Well—no.” Jon fidgeted. “It’s about what’s already on the tape—not yet. That’s just the latest thing I found. I’ve…” He bit his lip. “I’ve been going down into the tunnels.”

Neither of them looked particularly surprised, and the look that passed between them brought his old fears roaring back for a moment.

“How long?” Tim asked.

“Since… since I got back,” Jon replied. “After Prentisss, after everything was cleaned and we were allowed back. My first visit was on my first day back.”

“ Jon .” Martin looked aghast. “You were still injured back then!”

Tim nodded once, then held out his hand to Martin and beckoned. With a defeated expression, Martin dug out his wallet, pulled out a ten-pound note, and slapped it resentfully into Tim’s outstretched hand.

“Were you taking bets on me?” Jon spluttered.

“Martin here was convinced you were taking it easy when you first got back,” Tim said, putting the note into his own wallet. “I told him you were probably wading through worm corpses in the tunnels, all wrapped up like a little bandage mummy.”

“Well it’s good to know you find me so predictable,” Jon grumbled.

“Don’t get all snooty on me now, boss. You just won me ten quid, so you’re well on your way to being forgiven.”

“Tim, come on,” Martin muttered to him.

“Are either of you interested in what I found in the tunnels?” Jon asked.

That got their attention, thankfully.

“Okay, I’ll bite.” Tim settled into his seat, arms crossed. “What’d you find down there?”

As best he could, Jon laid it all out for them: his first encounter with the apparition, his later visits, the statement he’d found, and their last conversation and confirmation of Gerard’s identity.

Martin was openly shocked, and even Tim couldn’t hide his surprise. “Gerard Keay?” he said sharply. “You mean Gerard Keay is living in the tunnels underneath us?”

“Something like that,” Jon replied. “Not sure he’s really… living, down there.”

“I saw him!” Martin blurted out. “I must have—when we found Gertrude’s body, I saw someone standing there, just for a moment.”

“I believe so, yes,” said Jon. “And on that point—I’ve been working with Basira on the investigation. The police apparently have no way of playing the tapes that were found with Gertrude’s body, so she’s been passing them to me so I can play them and give her any relevant information.”

Tim’s face darkened back to a scowl. “Seriously? That’s why you’ve been sneaking around with her? This whole time you were going around working with her behind our backs—”

“Tim, I told you I was working with her off the record,” Jon reminded him. “You were the one who jumped to… other conclusions.”

“I didn’t see you jumping in to correct me!” Tim retorted. “Did you think it was funny?”

“I—no!” Jon spluttered. “No, you just—”

“Just what , Jon?”

Jon fidgeted nervously with the tape in his hands, avoiding his eyes. “You just—you were so amused by it, and… and after everything that happened, it was the happiest I’d seen you. Or the nearest thing. I-I didn’t want to ruin it.”

Tim scowled, rolling his eyes, but didn’t argue further.

“A-anyway,” Jon went on, placing the tape on the table between them. “This is the latest, and it turned out to be another piece to the puzzle. If you’d like to listen to it when we get back to the office…”

“Just give us the cliffnotes version, boss,” Tim grimaced. 

“I’ll listen when we get back,” Martin offered. “But… yeah, maybe a summary?”

Jon took a deep breath. “Alright. Well. Do you remember Mary Keay? Gerard Keay’s mother, she appeared in the first statement we found that featured a Leitner—”

Martin frowned, and Tim nodded shortly. “Old lady with the Sanskrit tattoos who was supposed to be dead?” said Tim. “Yeah, I remember her.”

“Well, before her supposed death, she gave a statement at the institute. Gertrude recorded it directly from her. And between her statement, Dominic Swain’s, and news stories about Gerard Keay’s trial, I think I’ve managed to piece together what happened to her. I haven’t had the time to put together a proper report yet—”

“Cliffnotes version,” Tim repeated.

“Right, so—Mary Keay’s statement concerned a Leitner book she found as a child. Er, stole. After killing its previous owner.”

“As a child? ” Martin interrupted, visibly unnerved.

“Nine years old,” Jon replied. “It was a book made of human skin, each page taken from a different person, and used to—to bind that person’s ghost to the book. If that makes sense.” He swallowed hard, feeling nauseous. “At the end of the statement, she told Gertrude that she’d discovered some new secret to the book, and was planning… something. Some kind of ritual, maybe.”

“I really don’t like where this is headed,” Tim muttered.

“The news articles about her death say that—that with the state her body was in, it was impossible to be self-inflicted,” Jon went on. “But… they also say she died of an overdose of painkillers .”

Martin was beginning to look pale. “You think—she bound herself to the book?”

“It fits,” Jon said simply.

Tim opened his mouth, and Jon braced himself for an argument, but instead Tim closed his mouth again and sighed. “God, you’re right, it does.”

“Does it?” Martin squeaked.

“After everything we’ve seen so far? Look at Prentiss. She basically fed herself to a hornet’s nest.” Tim turned back to Jon. “So you’ve been talking to him, then? What’s he got to say for himself?”

“Er… not much,” Jon replied. “At least—not much that makes sense? He’s very cryptic. Most of what he says is some vague warning or other, or another attempt to convince me not to come back.”

“Oh, great, so you’ve switched to stalking the ghost in the tunnels,” Tim said dryly. “You think he might have murdered Gertrude?”

“I did see him right by the room where her body was,” Martin pointed out.

“It’s beside the point,” Jon sighed. “He’s already demonstrated his difficulty with holding solid objects. I doubt he could hold a gun, much less fire it three times into someone.”

“Oh, well, that’s good,” Martin offered.

“Sure, until Jon picks someone else to accuse of trying to kill him.”

“I’m not doing this on a whim,” Jon snapped.

“Aren’t you? Because your choice of suspects seems pretty damn arbitrary to me,” Tim shot back. “Face it, Jon, nobody’s trying to kill you. You’re not that special.”

“Well someone killed Gertrude Robinson, and considering that her blood was all over her desk and her body was found under the institute, forgive me for thinking that her job— my job now—might have had something to do with why!”

“Um, guys?” Martin spoke up. “People are starting to stare.”

Jon forced himself to stay silent for a few moments, just long enough to calm his nerves. “I didn’t tell you all of this so we could argue more.”

“Then why did you?” Tim asked sullenly.

Jon considered his answer, then heaved a sigh. “Because the ghost in the tunnels told me to stop isolating myself.”

He was rewarded when the dour expression on Tim’s face broke for a moment. “Wait, what?”

“Gerard… he called himself the ‘endpoint of isolation’,” Jon went on. “Apparently it’s a bad idea to investigate supernatural horrors alone. And despite how things have been recently… well, you’re the only people I can actually talk to about this.”

“What a ringing endorsement,” said Tim. “What about Sasha? You planning on leaving her in the dark? Good luck with that.”

“Sasha had already left,” Jon said, rubbing his forehead wearily. “I didn’t want to give myself time to lose my nerve. I fully intend to fill her in later. This way, you can hold me accountable.”

“Or step in if you chicken out?” Martin suggested.

“Yes, that.”

“Fine,” Tim said. “One condition—I want to go down there. I want to see this thing.”

Jon hesitated. “He’s not always there. Sometimes I can’t find him.”

“Don’t care. Make it happen.”

“Alright, I suppose we’re going into the tunnels after lunch, then.” Jon glanced down, almost surprised to find food still in front of him. “Oh, right.”

“Hurry up, boss, we don’t have all day.”

Jon ate half and took the rest, and they made their way back to the institute. Tim eventually overtook him as they entered the building, and soon enough he’d put a fair amount of distance between himself and Jon. Because of this, Jon hadn’t reached the trapdoor yet when he heard Tim yell.

“Oh for God’s sake!”

Jon hurried to catch up, and found Tim standing over the trapdoor, arms akimbo. There was a deep scowl on his face, and when Jon followed his gaze to the ground, he soon found why.

There was a lock on the trapdoor.

“That—that wasn’t there before,” Jon spluttered. “I swear I don’t know where it came from—”

“Ah, Jon, everyone. Excellent timing.”

Jon started, spinning around to find Elias striding into the room with a stern look on his face. Sasha was following him, looking mildly curious. 

Jon swallowed the feeling of sudden dread. “Elias? What’s going on?”

Elias heaved a sigh and turned his stern expression on Jon. “It’s come to my attention that you’ve been spending a lot of time down there, Jon.”

“I—I haven’t—”

“I don’t believe I need to tell you that mucking around underground is not appropriate behavior during work hours, Jon.”

“I don’t do it during work hours!” Jon protested.

Elias’s mouth grew pinched. “Be that as it may,” he went on. “The tunnels are highly dangerous, and I’d rather not risk the safety of my employees by leaving them open. It will remain locked until further notice.” Elias leveled a severe stare at him. “Is that clear, Jon?”

“Clear,” Jon grumbled. “Fine.”

“Very good, I’m glad you understand.” Elias smiled pleasantly. “On that note, is there anything I can help you with?”

“Where’s the key?” Tim asked. Elias ignored him.

“No, that’s everything,” Jon said reluctantly. With a curt nod, Elias left the room. Sasha shot everyone a vaguely amused look, and returned to her desk.

“Well,” said Tim, once the Institute Head was out of earshot. “Fuck.”