MAG 3 - ‘Across The Street’ - Unspoken commitments and their undoing.
This statement is one that very effectively displays much of the awkwardness of the unspoken commitments we share with friends, acquaintances, the natural rules of society; and of course in true Magnus archives nature, what happens when supernatural forces interfere with these things.
Amy and Graham’s relationship is certainly a common one; I’m pretty sure any of us could name plenty of people we know well enough to wave to but wouldn’t particularly want to have an in depth conversation with. It’s natural, not every pair of people will get along famously, but the interesting thing with this is how strong the unspoken commitments we make are, even in these distant half-friendships.
Having lived in London my whole life I can only comment in depth upon these odd commitments I’ve experienced here- I couldn’t claim to speak for other cultures or individuals.
British Middle class society generally is, as is wonderfully presented in the episode, painfully polite. Not every relationship is polite, of course, but once the expectation is established (as it nearly always is in a mature academic setting) it must be followed. I’ve known many people to be completely cut out of groups for not being polite enough, and I can’t say I was eager to get them back. Once you break that mask of decency it’s nobody’s job to uphold it, and you’ll often lose the courtesy yourself.
In this same vein, it makes complete and utter sense for Graham to agree to look after Amy, however begrudgingly, after her accident. It’s a societal expectation, and in most cases a personal one. This opens up the discussion of how much of society is a pantomimed act instead of an effort to feel comfortable in the world, but I fear that’s too deep a topic to completely explore in a text post.
Needless to say, to make these obligated situations more comfortable, one must employ their humanity. Graham makes an effort, sharing his life, his interests, and he offers up perhaps more than he’d have liked to. It does seem to comfort Amy to some extent, but of course, someone suffering a head injury is not in any way obligated to reciprocate.
It is interesting though, that Graham should be the one to lose his humanity when he displays it so strongly. Amy crosses boundaries and tears away from what would generally be considered basic human decency by so recklessly spying on Graham; and in the end it is Graham who has his humanity so harshly torn away.
Balance is restored though of course. Witnessing a thing like this instills that bone deep fear that those otherworldly powers so desire, and what is more human than intense fear?
The stranger is clever in its game with Amy, not only does it force her to come to terms with her friend no longer being human for all intents and purposes, but it also forces her to confront how she’s changed, how far removed her daily sessions of watching Graham were from her, or who she once was.
Whoever was there that was pretending Graham was wrong, and what better time is there to see that when maybe you yourself have become wrong too.
MAG 5 - ‘Thrown Away’ - Nonspecific accusations.
Conceptually, this episode is not particularly scary. There’s no horrible monster, no universal risk of death, no massive terrifying reveal; its a highly specific experience. Yet it still hits that place of fear, causes that nagging feeling, the type that makes you cover your ears or close your eyes, to hide in some small way.
I think one of the reasons for this is that it starts by taking about you. The listener. Even the most devout anti-waste activist has thrown something away before, and almost anyone in a position to be listening to a podcast has ended up with their waste in the hands of a binman. The statement doesn’t start with information on the setting or the thing the statement is about, but rather on you.
This reach out towards the audience puts you on a back foot. You don’t expect to be confronted with considerations about your own, mundane life, during a horror podcast, and it weakens your defence. It’s easy to gloss over the scary parts in any piece of horror if you stay true to the 'that could never happen to me’ mentality, but it’s a hard one to maintain when you’re initially forced to think about yourself, what you throw away.
Although the statement is very clearly angled towards the stranger or the spiral with its doll heads, inexplicable teeth, religious texts, and final gift for the initial victim, as an audience experience it leans also towards the eye. That subtle reminder that you’re being watched in ways you would never consider, that even if you never really leave the house its impossible to escape perception.
You, the audience, are being watched by one just like the statement giver, and there’s no way you can opt out.
I have this headcanon that when Jon wakes up from his coma he finds his nose slightly crooked. It’s not awful, not terribly noticeable, but certainly not how it was before. No doctor would question it, nor a visiting acquaintance; he survived a massive explosion and the collapse of a building, a broken nose is a logical injury.
It puzzles him though. If his nose broke, why not his fingers? Why not a fractured skull? He doesn’t remember it with any great clarity but surely he wouldn’t only break his nose, that couldn’t be it. But alas, who could he ask? The only other survivor was Basira and she would know even less than he.
As heals, returns to the archives, and becomes used to that slight bend to the left on the bridge of his nose, things do come back, bit by bit. Flashes of things from the unknowing, a story with each scene jumbled like an unsolved puzzle. Faces, voices, sensations, and a disgustingly heavy sense of unease, of guilt.
He remembers dancing most of all. It makes sense, the unknowing is a dance after all, but that doesn’t make it any less unpleasant. That happens near the end of it all, he recalls, but that couldn’t possibly have caused his broken nose, could it? Nikola was certainly rough with him, but what reason would she have to go near his face? Her dance was painful, but precise.
He remembers making eye contact with Basira as they were pulled into the theatre - a split second of connection, a sharing of terror as control and comprehension fell away into the abyss… But those things don’t bear thinking about.
Sometimes days, weeks go by without remembering a single thing, without even thinking about it. It’s never long enough though, and little things in every day life can twist in a second to a harsh memory. A teaspoon clinking on the edge of a cup turns to the high pitched squeal of a pipe organ; the growl of a dog turns to the groans of something else.
One day, crammed into a crowded train, Jon finds himself facing a tall stranger. The train slams to an unexpected stop sending him flying into the man, his nose crushing against a solid shoulder, releasing an explosion of pain and an entirely unexpected memory.
Just before the detonator was triggered, a scuffle on the floor (or what felt like it at the time), he’d fallen hard. A hand pressed into his face wrenching his nose to the side but the pain barely registered at the time because that wasn’t important! Because what really mattered was Tim. It had been Tim!
The final act of aggression that had lead to the destruction of the ritual, that horrible moment that saved everything, it had left a mark. Though a painful memory to have so clearly attached to oneself, there’s a strange joy in its origin, knowing it wasn’t left by something truly evil.
It’s an odd comfort really, to know that such a mark was left by a friend, an ally. But as sweet as the relief is, the bitter knowledge remains; Tim is gone forever, and that mark is a reminder of it in every reflection.