The shadows in the archives seemed to stretch farther than usual as Jon settled into his chair. The air was heavy with dust and silence. He pressed record.
"Statement of Timothy Hodge, regarding his encounter with one Harriet Lee and her subsequent death. Original statement given December 9th, 2014. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins."
Timothy Hodge described himself as a freelance designer, balancing projects and deadlines from the comfort of his Brixton flat. His schedule left him isolated for days at a time, so when work wrapped up, he sought relief in the chaos of clubs and bars. That particular night, he’d finished a taxing project and decided to let loose at the Dogstar in Brixton.
“I wasn’t looking for anything serious,” he admitted. “But when I saw her—Henna-red hair, torn tights, and too much eyeliner—she was exactly my type.”
Her name was Harriet, and she danced with an uncanny, fluid motion that made the word writhe flicker in Tim’s mind. They barely spoke at first—Harriet refused drinks, asking only for water—but her intensity drew him in. She leaned in close, eyes wide, and asked, ‘Do you want me?’
Tim said yes.
Outside, Harriet clung tightly to his arm as they walked toward his flat. She kept glancing over her shoulder, her movements jittery. Tim tried to reassure her, but she remained on edge, scratching her arms until red marks appeared.
“Is something wrong?” he asked. Harriet only shook her head and hurried him along. Once inside, she relaxed, visibly relieved when the door’s deadlock clicked shut.
Over tea and water, Harriet opened up. She was an art student from Salisbury, struggling to settle in London. Her nerves, however, stemmed from something darker. She claimed to have been mugged two nights prior, but her voice trembled as she told it.
“It wasn’t a mugging,” Tim recalled her saying. “Not really.”
Walking home in Archway, Harriet spotted a woman in a red dress lying face down. The dress rippled unnaturally, as though something moved beneath the fabric. Concerned, Harriet approached. The woman sprang up, grabbed her shoulders, and slammed her into a wall. Harriet expected a knife, a punch—something physical—but instead, she felt something inside her shift.
“I blacked out,” Harriet said. “When I woke up, she was gone. No wounds, no blood. But I felt… wrong.”
Harriet had since been plagued by visions of the woman, lurking at every corner. Her skin itched relentlessly. She tried to seek help but was overwhelmed by nausea before reaching the police station. Doctors dismissed her symptoms, and she resorted to wandering the city, afraid to be alone.
By then, Harriet was crying, and Tim, unsure how to comfort her, kissed her instead. She kissed back, and they ended up in bed.
Tim’s voice trembled as he recounted what followed.
“As we lay there, I felt it—something move. Not her, but inside her. It squirmed.”