The Magnus Archives - Rusty Fears 6 - Hollow by Sam Lazure

Episode Date: November 7, 2024

'Hollow' is written by Sam Lazure, inspired by the prompt “birds”, and is performed by Sarah Lambie.Once all six short horror stories have been released, there will be a public poll for listeners to vote for their favourite. The overall winner will get the opportunity to write a case that will be featured in The Magnus Protocol, so be sure to listen to every story and keep an eye out for the voting form in a few weeks’ time. Content Notes-Ornithophobia-Cartilogenophobia-Body Horror-DiseaseDirected by April SumnerProduced by April Sumner and Nico VetteseEdited, Music and SFX by Nico VetteseAdditional AFX by Meg McKellarMusic by Nico VetteseMastering by Catherine RinellaJoin our community:WEBSITE: rustyquill.comFACEBOOK: facebook.com/therustyquillX: @therustyquillEMAIL: [e-mail] The Magnus Protocol is a derivative product of the Magnus Archives, created by Rusty Quill Ltd. and licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial Share alike 4.0 International Licence.   Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Hi everyone, it's Lowry. Today I'm here to advertise A Fool's Errand, an upcoming science fantasy role-playing game played with tarot cards in lieu of dice. A Fool's Errand is created by the brilliant minds behind the Planet Arcana podcast and is currently being crowdfunded on Kickstarter. Players build their fools and explore realms both waking and subconscious. The major arcana gods take notice, manifesting their love and rage as boons and calamities. The more power the fools get, the more calamities are visited upon the planet. The closer the world gets to the next big oops.

Back the game now by visiting www.afoolserendgame.com. Have fun and see you later. personal AI assistant Gemini on Google Pixel 9 that is always ready to help me get things done faster and easier, boosting my efficiency and productivity. Gemini can help me get answers about IRL situations quickly. If I simply snap a photo on Google Pixel, I can use Gemini to get answers right away, such as identifying a plan or inspiring me with a delicious recipe I can make from the ingredients in my fridge. Gemini has been helping me with planning and organizing, and I've enjoyed how Gemini can sift through my emails to find and summarize what I need, because my Gemini assistant catches me up on the important info I need in no time.

Meanwhile, if I hold down the power button on my Pixel phone, I can start a conversation with Gemini to supercharge my planning, learning and more. I'm really enjoying trying this phone and I think I'm going to keep it. Learn more about Gemini and the new Google Pixel 9 at store.google.com. Have fun and see you later. Hi everyone, Alex here, curator of Creeps, Crawlies and Chaos. I'm just taking a moment to introduce this as the first of the Rusty Fears 6, a series of fan-submitted short horror stories entered into a competition and shortlisted to be produced and voiced by our amazing production team. These shorts will be released every two weeks during the season break and once all six have

been released we'll be holding a public vote for a winner who will get the chance to write a case that will be featured in the Magnus Protocol so be sure to listen to each of them and follow our socials to take part. Voting will begin after the last episode airs so check back then for more info. That's all from me for now, I have to go relentlessly punish your favourite characters, but I hope you enjoy this instalment of Rusty Fears and I look forward to showing you all Season 2 of the Magnus Protocol next year. By Sam Leisure My basket is almost full. I push deeper into the copse, peeling back the layers of undergrowth, looking.

Around me the woods begin to change, coming alive as the suggestion of light works its way into the tar-colored sky. I find what I'm looking for on a sawn-off stump. The wood is old and rotted, filmed with moss. Ants, their tiny bodies bright as dewdrops in my flashlight's beam, swarm around my prize. I pull on my gloves. There is an art to this. Not all that falls from the sky is still pure. Not everything that I find is fit for my purpose. Some are rotted by the time I get to them, their bodies already claimed for the forest. Others are diseased in a less corporeal way, threaded with some intangible taint that stains my hands beneath the skin. The ants are a bad omen. Still, I lift the dead songbird from

the stump and turn it over in my fingers. On the surface it's a perfect specimen of a starling, On the surface it's a perfect specimen of a starling, feathers sleek and healthy, wings whole and unbroken, now dull eyes clear of any sign of sickness. I brush ants from its body and search for wounds, but I can't find any obvious reason for it to have died. I bring it to where I set my basket beneath the tangled branches of an old poplar. Within are the other fruits of the night, a wren, a goldfinch, and a house sparrow. I place the starling among its brethren and pull the fabric cover into place. As I walk home, I mark the progression of the evil. Although much of it is intangible, the places where it anchors itself are marked.

An oddly wet stain on the side of one house, jagged shadows flickering behind the windows of another, a tree being eaten away from the inside out, gardens gone rank and foul. I mark the people, too. They are the ones it is truly after. They are the ones it wants for nests. I can see it, if I look just right. An early morning jogger with long, thin shadows like insect legs twitching beneath her skin. Cars leaving phantoms slicks of darkness in their wake. Children with vast and empty eyes. Every time I make this walk it's a little bit worse.

Worked a little deeper into the fabric of this place. The urge to help them, to rip that curse out of them with my own hands, makes my fingers tighten on the handle of my basket. When I'm home, I go straight to the shed at the back of my property. Only once I'm safely ensconced within the walls, with the door latched behind me, do I put down my basket and lift out the birds, laying them carefully on my work table. The powerful array of LEDs set into the ceiling casts everything in a flat, yellow-white glow, turning my hands, my tools, my birds two-dimensional.

My shed is larger than it looks. I stand in the small front section, occupied only by a tool chest and a modest work table curled against one wall. The majority of the space is taken up by the work. It hovers over the dirt floor, suspended from the ceiling by spider strands of fishing line. Vaguely humanoid with long, simian arms and twisting, many-jointed legs, it's about the size of a large dog. Every piece of it is composed of my finds, built of soft wings, beady eyes, pointed beaks, tiny grasping claws. It is almost perfect, though the head is still

incomplete. Light splinters over it, catching on the exposed mosaic of delicate bone. It is our salvation. It is almost done. I get to work. The first task is akin to ordinary taxidermy, splitting open their bodies, cleaning them, removing what needs to be removed, filling them with bundles of dried herbs. I use the bones when I can. The excess I bury. I decide that the starling's wings will go toward fleshing out the chest. As my hands begin the familiar tasks of cutting, stitching, attaching, smoothing, I think about signs. The birds were the first one, of course. They usually are.

Dropping from the sky like stones. No apparent reason for death. Littering the streets with small puffs of feather. Next came the gardens, plants going soft and rotten, leaves veined with grey and red, roots coated with a foul-smelling black eiker. Dogs went lame, children cried in the night, streetlights died with unprecedented frequency. Then it started sinking its teeth into the populace. Most people are blind to the signs. I see them, going about their day, oblivious to

the fact that it crawls beneath their skin. I don't blame them for this. Their ignorance isn't their fault. I will help them. I will protect them. I am the only one who can keep them safe. Later, I stand in my kitchen looking out at the street. I watch through the window of the house across from mine as the family eats their dinner, the filaments of sickness threading their food, pulsing. I've seen them on the street, the rot already gums beneath the father's nails and twines around the mother's wrists. Night settles among the houses like water sinking into sand. One by one the lighted windows go out. The street light directly across from me flickers, illuminating for

just a moment some skulking shadow before sputtering into darkness. It could have been a fox, or perhaps a stray dog. I leave the family to their meal and draw the curtains closed. Something strikes the window. Around me the house is still and silent, familiar shadows making comfortable shapes in the dark. The curtain flutters in the draught. The quiet is vast and unending. I flick on the porch light and step outside. Beneath the kitchen window, a cardinal twitches. His feathers the color of spilled blood in the dark.

Kneeling, I cup him in my palms looking for injuries. Nothing seems to be broken, and already he's shaking off the shock, his small eyes bright and animal. From the direction of the shed, something unfurls. A feeling. A sound. A presence. A shadow song composed of wings and bones. It presses against my senses, filling my head with white noise.

And I understand. I tell myself the Cardinal would have died anyway. I tell myself it's for a greater cause. I tell myself a lot of things. The next morning I can't find any birds alive or dead. The trees are barren and stark against the empty sky, the wind devoid of its normal trickle of song. It's not the first time I've returned with an empty basket since I started my work, but it is the first time I see the bird's nests on my way home abandoned,

the chicks inside either very quiet or... gone. Meanwhile the shadows cluster more thickly around the bases of the houses. Meanwhile I can taste the rot seeping beneath the skin of the town, feel the pulsing writhing thing that has no right to be here. Then something makes me look up, into the hard glare of the morning sky, and I see it. It hangs above the town, a serpentine helix, an inward-turning cloud. A flock of birds, so many that they blot out the sun, flying and flying and flying in interlocking circles, twisting rings, undulating waves. As I draw closer, I hear their myriad wingbeats, like the sound of an insect hive, but so much louder. I begin to run. When I reach my house, I shove open the shed door and switch on the light. The draught pushing in from behind me makes the snapped

ends of the fishing line dance and flutter, the harsh LEDs chasing away the shadows. It stands in the middle of the shed. With a liquid whisper, it takes a step forward, feather sliding against feather, sliding against bone. Hundreds of black eyes fix on me, gleaming in the light leaking in from outside. Its head, still just a labyrinth of exposed bone, tilts almost like a dog's. It takes one of my arms. I look down to where its fingers curl around my arm and I see what it sees. What I should have noticed a long time ago. A pale shadow twisting beneath the skin. Bile rises in my throat and I want to scream, to beg for

forgiveness, to claw it out. Before I can do anything though, it brings its other hand up and presses against the festering thing. Small claws, like the kind found on songbirds, emerge from the feathery mass of its palm and pierce the skin, skewering the foulness beneath. Its fingers are gentle as blood begins to leak from the wound, and it slowly pulls its palm away, taking with it a sliver of diseased meat, infected with the evil I created it to excise. As it releases me, I think I understand. The evil did not come from outside and sicken the town. It came from us. It was always us. With our impurities and imperfections, cleansing the place will not be enough. It came from the people.

I built the solution of absences, the empty bodies of birds and their empty, hollow bones. It understands the necessity of removal. It will do what is needed. Weeks later I kneel in the soft earth, gardening. Never have my flowers reached this high, the poppies vivid as cardinal wings, the black calla lilies as darkly shining as starling feathers. All along the street, gardens overflow with health and bounty, lawns trim and perfect, houses as picturesque as postcards. The morning is clear and silent. Starlings sit like stones in the tree in my yard. Their black eyes follow the movements of the people, and I know they watch for the pale shadow that stains eyes and hands and teeth as keenly as I do.

I know what they serve. Across from me a family goes by, all wide smiles and manic eyes. Their happiness has the air of a performance, and though they do not look at the birds, I know they're aware of them. As they walk, one sleeve rides up the father's arm, exposing a row of still-healing scabs, the kind left by small talents. The skin beneath looks puckered and sunken, like something beneath is missing. They keep their heads down and do not look at me. After they're gone, I take some herb cuttings and bring them to the shed to dry.

The dusty, floral scent that permeates the space ever since I started using it for storage is still undercut with the faint whiff of dead things, no matter how many times I clean it. I return to my house and wait. It happens after nightfall. I stand in the kitchen, facing the street. The family across from me eats their now clean dinner, teeth flashing in the light. Their smiles split their faces in two. I turn. It fills the doorway.

No longer the size of a dog, it towers over me cloaked in shadow. Its long arms dangle by its sides, legs twisting unnaturally beneath it. Our salvation. When it first walked, it practically floated over the floor, slight and insubstantial, its songbird claws capable of getting beneath the skin but little more. Now its feet move with the lithe step of a predator, quiet, but firmly on the ground. Bird bones are hollow. They hold the sky within themselves. Crafting it out of their bodies gave it purity, and a small amount of strength, it purity, and a small amount of strength, enough to get beneath the skin. The materials it deposits on the floor are not bird bones. I kneel and begin sorting through the pile. It stains my hands red, the red of poppies, the red of cardinal feathers.

Here there is no waste. Everything it removes it repurposes, once added to itself, and if it takes slightly more than necessary, who would blame it? We owe it so much. It refuses to go back into the shed, so I keep my tools in the house. As I begin the familiar tasks of cutting, stitching, attaching, smoothing, I think of how the evil runs much deeper than the skin, and how much deeper it will reach to truly complete its work. Then I feel its multitude of eyes on me and I stop thinking of anything at all. It freed itself before

I could finish it. Now its body is thick and strong with borrowed flesh, but it still has not told me what it wants for a face. It is almost completed. It is so very beautiful. The Magnus Protocol is a podcast distributed by Rusty Quill and licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial Share-Alike 4.0 International Licence. To subscribe, view associated materials or join our Patreon, visit RustyQuill.com. Rate and review us online, tweet us at TheRustyQuill, visit us on Facebook or email us via mail at RustyQuill.com. Thanks for listening. Hi folks, Shahan here, voice of Sam in the Magnus Protocol. This episode is sponsored by Google Pixel. I'm excited to tell you about the power and helpfulness of using my personal AI assistant

Gemini on Google Pixel 9 that is always ready to help me get things done faster and easier, boosting my efficiency and productivity. Gemini can help me get answers about IRL situations quickly. If I simply snap a photo on Google Pixel, I can use Gemini to get answers right away, such as identifying a plan or inspiring me with a delicious recipe I can make from the ingredients in my fridge. Gemini has been helping me with planning and organizing, and I've enjoyed how Gemini can sift through my emails to find and summarize what I need because my Gemini assistant catches me up on the important info I need in no time. Meanwhile, if I hold down the power button on my Pixel phone, I can start a conversation with Gemini to supercharge my planning, learning and more. I'm really enjoying trying this phone and

I think I'm going to keep it. Learn more about Gemini and the new Google Pixel 9 at store.google.com. Have fun and see you later! Hi everyone, it's Billy, the voice of Alice in the Magnus Protocol here. Today, Have fun and see you later. The Other Stories is an award-winning weekly audio fiction podcast featuring incredible stories across multiple genres, including horror, thrillers and sci-fi. With over 600 episodes and a range of mini-series or individual stories, they have stories for everyone. Search for The Other Stories wherever you listen to your podcasts or go to theothersstories.net or rustyquill.com for more information. Have fun and see you later.