The Magnus Institute’s archives were as much a mausoleum as they were a repository. Dust clung to the disheveled stacks of papers and files, some handwritten, others clumsily typed on yellowed sheets. The flickering light overhead cast faint shadows, mimicking the feeling of unseen movement. Jonathan Sims—Jon, to those who knew him well—adjusted the mic on the old tape recorder. His voice crackled faintly as the tape recorder whirred to life.
"Test… Test… Test… 1, 2, 3… Right." He paused and cleared his throat. "My name is Jonathan Sims. I work for the Magnus Institute, London, an organisation dedicated to academic research into the esoteric and the paranormal. The head of the Institute, Mr. Elias Bouchard, has employed me to replace the previous Head Archivist, one Gertrude Robinson, who has recently passed away."
He leaned back in his chair, eyeing the chaotic stacks of paper that lined the shelves. "I have been working as a researcher at the Institute for four years now and am familiar with most of our more significant contracts and projects. Most reach dead ends, predictably enough, as incidents of the supernatural—such as they are, and I always emphasise there are very few genuine cases—tend to resist easy conclusions." He sighed. "When an investigation has gone as far as it can, it is transferred to the Archives."
The task ahead was daunting. Two hundred years of fragmented case files lay before him, scattered and barely organized. Thousands of documents filled the room, stuffed into unmarked boxes or left loose, threatening to spill into an abyss of unsorted chaos. Many were written by hand or produced on typewriters, with no digital or audio versions. Recognizing that the work must start somewhere, Jon picks up his first written statement, and with the tape-recorder buzzing softly, begins reading…
“Statement of Nathan Watts, regarding an encounter on Old Fishmarket Close, Edinburgh. Original statement given April 22nd, 2012. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins.
"This all happened a couple of years ago, so I apologise if some of the details are a bit off. I mean, I feel like I remember it clearly, but sometimes things are so weird that you start to doubt yourself. Still, I suppose weird is kind of what you guys do, right?"
Nathan’s written account described his experience as a biochemistry student at the University of Edinburgh. He attended a celebratory party for a friend, Michael MacAulay. The evening was fueled by single malts and bravado until Nathan, overcome by alcohol, chose to walk home alone.
The steep descent of Old Fishmarket Close tested his balance. Drunk and disoriented, he stumbled, tumbling down the street. Bruised but otherwise unharmed, Nathan paused to light a cigarette—until a voice called out.
“Can I have a cigarette?”
Jon read on, capturing Nathan’s recollection of freezing at the words. Across the street, in the shadows of an unlit alley, a figure swayed slightly. Male, Nathan guessed, though the darkness made details uncertain. Offering his tobacco, he remained rooted to the spot, the stranger unmoving save for that unnatural sway.
“Can I have a cigarette?” The voice repeated, flat and toneless. Nathan’s unease deepened.
Jon’s voice steadied as he recited Nathan’s observations. The damp, sunken skin, the fevered pallor. But it was the mouth that disturbed him most. It never moved. Yet the voice continued.
“Can I have a cigarette?”
Nathan’s analogy surfaced—the stranger like an anglerfish, its light luring prey into the dark. The figure’s feet hovered slightly above the ground, suspended as though pulled by invisible strings. Terror seized Nathan as he fumbled for his phone to illuminate the figure. In an instant, the shape folded unnaturally and vanished into the shadows. “Like it was… pulled back by a string,” he said. “There was nothing there. Just… silence.”
Days later, Nathan returned to the alley in daylight. He found no evidence—no footprints, no marks—save for a single unsmoked Marlboro Red lying beneath a burned-out light fixture. Around the same time, posters for a missing student, John Fellowes, began appearing. In one, Nathan noticed a detail—a pack of Marlboro Reds in Fellowes’ pocket.