Things I noticed so far: 1. Eyes and Patterns seem to be a recurring theme. 2. Rayner. 3. Missing people are involved in every episode. 4. I’m starting to think the last Archivist was “disorganized” for a reason. 5. The Archivist has Opinions and it is amusing.
@@chiaracongiuhughes9102 the archivist isn’t just Jons creepy title it’s quite literally his job, and the conclusion that Gertrude had a plan isn’t that hard to reach. You don’t really need hindsight for this
So far we have living darkness, spirit of war, a few different types of imposters, fractals, fire, spiders, books, eyes, STD bugs and for some reason a coffin.
My theory is that whatever ritual he was performing was out of love for his child, sacrificing people to whatever "The darkness" is, so that when it came, it would not take his child, possibly at the cost that the final sacrifice must be himself.
@@quoipi pal, it's not like i actually spoiled anything. I never said it IS what happened, as it is never confirmed/denied, and I didn't give any plot details out. Plus, if I literally begin with "as someone who's finished the series", if you're SO afraid of spoilers, you'd stop reading. Regardless, I'm someone who always puts spoiler warnings when I _do_ talk about them. So check out a doctor to get that stick pulled out of your ass.
@@aubarlowe Your reply was so short that anyone who reads decently fast can't just "stop reading" when they see that phrase, since for me at least by the time I'd processed that you'd said that I was already done reading the comment. Whilst I *now* understand that you are someone who applies proper spoilers, I knew nothing about you initially and as such the significance of your comment was up in the air. If you're gonna say "as someone who's finished the series", it wasn't exactly unfair of me to assume that what came next was knowledge resulting from having finished the series, hence me assuming it's a spoiler.
@@quoipi I see your point, and I'm sorry for worrying you about spoilers. But I also feel like "it's probably what happened" should give away that it's a guess and not spoils regardless
I also heard smth yesterday, while I was listening to Burned Out. When the character started uprooting the tree, a creaking of wood could be heard. Nice
Dude if they ever decided to do a legit tv series of this it would be the scariest show created. They wouldn’t have to change a thing. This is terrifying.
It wouldn't work When we watch a show on TV we think on a present Here, hearing the story with that emotionless narration keeps a reminder of the story already happened, giving it an unintentional nihilistic feeling, making the events even eerier
Some connections so far: 1) most cases happened in late autumn/November 2) there is a missing person in almost every one of these 3) weird swirling patterns are mentioned 4) odd scents are also mentioned
i know this was a month ago but id also like to add the mentions of the name "reyner" (i believe thats how its spelt). MAG 7, a guy named Joseph Reyner was mentioned to be in the crater as wilfred.
@@jazz5842i’m not sure, but it’s just mentioned that they find him in the same crater as wilfred. a lot of people are referencing him in this episode, and he’s the one calling Julia’s dad to do something (“detective” reyner)
@@jazz5842also just realised maxwell rayner is mentioned at the end as a cult leader. (the guy what got killed at the end, the one cut up). really confusing tbh
the stories of the families of serial killers always make me so sad. this poor lady seems to be doing everything she can to move on from a really traumatic childhood, but that must be such a struggle when the official story doesn't answer the questions her personal experience raised. it sounds like the statement giver's dad was trying to protect his family from this cult and whatever weird powers they were messing with. gross water, weird animal noises, and lights going off? very strange. the narrator mentioned hearing the name rayner before, which i remember from the wilfred owen episode. him saying the name being a coincidence leads me to believe it definitely isn't, but idk what the connection would be.
Also of note the mom had the same pendant, she might have been a cult escapee that started a family and they came for her and her daughter, which implies there something with blood ties going on as well. The fact that the father seems to have been working for someone and all the victims were cult members is curious as well.
I wonder if her father was actively hunting and killing Not Thems. It would explain why the photos of the corpses her father kept didn't match the photos the police brought. One was of the actual victims, probably the father's photos, and the other is of the Not Them. I always wondered what happened to the victims bodies of Not Them
I feel bad for the comparatively "innocent" families that get caught up in all this stuff. If not for the mom's involvement in that cult their family might have avoided being pulled into all the STUFF.
ppl say everything's connected and the names are important but DAMN it's so many of them 😂 I think I heard of Rayner or whatshisname before but I already forgot where :((
Honestly if it's super SUPER central to they plot, the show generally does a good job of reminding you... though I will admit I've looked into the wiki a couple of times for a refresher. It's when you relisten (they're on hiatus currently so that's what I'm doing) that you REALLY start to make all of the little connections that make the story that much richer!
Rayner came up in MA7 as Joseph Rayner, the soldier who died in the crater Alan was found in! I'm strugglkmg to keep track too, i didn't pay attention at all in the first few episodes
@@C_Ow No, there is an Alan from the episode with the trash guys who had found the bags of teeth and baby heads and a metal heart with Alan's name on it, and he disappeared after that last bag was found. I believe the previous person is getting them mixed up with Wilfred.
i'm re-listening to all these episodes before season 5 drops.... damn, you don't notice much the first time through. definitely worth listening through twice cause all the names and stories are connected. you don't realize you miss most of it until things start coming together with an actual plot from season 2 and onwards. this masterpiece is 160 episodes long.... goddamn i'm excited.
I finished season 1, but I'm re listening s1 because I feel like I missed something and I don't want to start s2 cus im kinda... scared? But not in that way. Im scared because if I listen it now I will never be able to make my own researchs kinda. But I know that in most episodes is about an Eye or eyes
I know! Hearing "Rayner" in this as the guy on the phone made me realize this is actually a Dark statement. I guess I just lumped it in with Hunt, because of Julia.
I’m wondering... what if Mr Sims predecessor archived each incident based on whatever creature is believed to be responsible. He mentions that the piper was filed along with early 2000’s cases I feel this is interesting.
I'm trying to keep up but I can't even connect stuff that happens in the same story. Like the last one... The dead guy appears then vanishes leaving the floor burnt. The tree bleeds. There's an apple inside a box below the tree and it decays and turn into spiders. The hand around the waste of the lady who died... How does any of this connect?
ARCHIVIST Statement of Julia Montauk, regarding the actions and motivations of her father, the serial killer Robert Montauk. Original statement given December 3rd, 2002. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins. ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT) My father was a murderer. There’s no way I can reasonably deny it at this point; the evidence provided by the police was overwhelming, and I saw his shed myself. I’m not here to try and clear his name. There wouldn’t be much point, anyway, as I’m sure you know he died in prison last year. Seven years isn’t much to have served out of a life sentence, but I doubt it was the early parole he’d have hoped for. Sorry, maybe that wasn’t in the best taste. Still, his passing is why I feel like I can tell this story; something I’ve never really felt free to do before now. I always expected him to talk about it during the media frenzy that surrounded his trial, but for whatever reason, he kept quiet. I think I understand a bit more now why he never spoke about it, preferring people draw their own conclusions, but at the time, I couldn’t fathom why he just sat there silently, letting others talk for him. I’d like to tell someone now, though, and I’ve only recently finished my court-appointed counselling sessions, so I’d rather not tell the tabloids and have ‘MY FATHER KILLED TO FUEL CULT MAGIC, SAYS DAUGHTER OF MONSTER’ splashed over page 7 of the weekend edition. So that leaves you guys. Respectable is hardly the word I’d use, but it’s better than nothing. So yes, my father killed at least 40 people over the course of the five years prior to his arrest in 1995. I won’t recount the lurid details - if you’re interested you can look up Robert Montauk in the newspaper archive of any library. There’ll be plenty there: the papers clearly didn’t care much about the American bombing, because in April of that year they seemed to be talking about nothing but my father. There are also a couple of books on him, none of which I can really recommend, but I guess Ray Cowan’s No Bodies in the Shed is the closest to what I’d consider accurate, although it does imply that I was an accomplice, despite the fact that I was twelve years old at the time. Honestly, I discovered most of the details from the newspapers and the court, just like everyone else. My father spent my formative years killing dozens of people and I had no idea. But the more I think back over my childhood, the more sure I am that there was something else going on. I don’t have any theories as to what any of this means, but I just need to get it down on paper somewhere. And this seems as good a place as any. I’ve always lived in the same house on York Road in Dartford. Even now, after all that’s happened, and all I know about what went on there, I can’t bring myself to leave. As far as I know, the shed came with the house; it always sat in the garden: old, wooden and silent. I don’t recall it being used until after the night my mother disappeared. That’s when everything started to get strange. My memory of early childhood is patchy - mostly isolated images and impressions - but I remember the night she vanished like it was yesterday. I was seven years old, and had been to the cinema that evening for the very first time in my life. We had been to see The Witches at what was back then the ABC, down on Shaftesbury Avenue. I had seen films before, of course, on our tiny living room television, but to see a movie on the big screen was awe-inspiring. The film itself was terrifying, though, and even now I’d say it’s far scarier than any “child’s film” has a right to be. I remember I spent a lot of it close to tears, but had been so proud of the fact that I hadn’t cried at all. When we got home, I lay awake for a long time. That scene where Luke is transformed into a mouse kept playing in my mind, and for some reason, it left me too afraid to go to sleep. It was then that I heard a thump from downstairs, like something heavy falling over. I didn’t have a clock in my room, so I had no idea what the time was, but I recall looking out of the window and the world was dark and utterly silent. The thump came again, and I decided to go downstairs and see what it was. The landing was almost pitch black, and I tried to be as quiet as possible so nobody would know I was there. The fourth stair down from the top of the staircase always creaked, and still does in fact, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard it creak louder than it did that night as I crept down them so slowly. The lights downstairs were all turned off, except for the kitchen light, which I could see from the bottom of the stairway. I walked into the kitchen to find it empty. The back door stood open, and a cool breeze blew through it that made me shiver in my pyjamas. I saw something shiny laying on the table. Reaching up, I found my mother’s pendant. The design had always struck me as beautiful: it was silver, an abstract shape of a hand with a symbol on it that I believe was meant to represent a closed eye. I had never seen her take it off. In my child’s mind, I assumed that she had just left it on the table, an accident, and that the open door meant nothing. I went back upstairs, necklace clutched firmly in my hand, to return it to her. She wasn’t in bed, of course. The space next to where my father lay fast asleep was empty. I gently touched my sleeping father’s shoulder, and he awoke slowly. I asked him where mum was, and he started to say something when he saw the silver chain clutched in my hands. He quickly got out of bed and started to get dressed. As he pulled on a shirt, he asked me where I had found it, and I told him, on the kitchen table. Following me downstairs, his gaze was immediately locked on the open door, and he paused. Instead of going outside, he walked over to the kitchen sink and turned on one of the taps. Immediately there began to flow a dark, dirty-looking liquid and the sick, salty smell of brackish water hit my nose, though at the time I didn’t understand that’s what it was. The light in the kitchen blew out at that moment and the room got very dark. My father told me everything was fine, that I should go back to bed. His hands shook slightly as he took the pendant from me, and I didn’t believe him, but I did what I was told anyway. I don’t know how long I lay there, waiting for my father to return that night, but I know it was getting light outside when I finally fell asleep. Eventually I woke up. The house was quiet and empty. I had missed the start of school by hours, but that was fine, because I didn’t want to leave the house. I just sat in the living room, silent and still. It was almost evening again by the time my father actually returned. His face was pale and he barely looked at me, just walked straight to the cupboard and poured himself a glass of scotch. He sat next to me, drained the glass, and told me that my mother was gone. I didn’t understand. Still don’t, really. But he said it with such finality that I started to cry, and I didn’t stop for a very long time. My father was a policeman, as I’m sure you’ve read, so as a child I just assumed that the police had looked for my mother and failed to find her. It wasn’t until much later that I discovered they’d never even had a missing persons report filed on her. As far as I know, I never had any living grandparents, and apparently no-one noticed she was gone - which was strange, as I have vague memories of her having friends over a lot before she vanished. Everyone assumes she was one of my father’s first victims, but there was never enough evidence to add it to the official tally. It doesn’t really matter. For what it’s worth, I don’t think he did it. I won’t deny it makes sense from the outside, but I remember how devastated he was when she disappeared. He started drinking a lot. I think he did try to look after me as best he could, but most nights he just ended up passed out in his chair. That was also when he started spending a lot of time in the shed. I’d never really paid it much attention before. As far as I was concerned, the sturdy wooden structure was just the home of spiders’ nests and the rusted garden tools my parents would use once a year to attack the overgrown wilderness that was our back garden. But soon after my mother’s disappearance, a sturdy new padlock was placed on the door, and my father spent a lot of time inside. He told me he was woodworking, and sometimes I’d hear the sounds of power tools from inside, and he’d present me with some small wooden token he had made, but mostly there was silence. It should probably have bothered me more than it did, the hours he spent in there, and that odd smell I sometimes noticed, like tinned meat. But I never really paid it much attention, and I had my own grief to deal with. He was gone most nights as well. Often, I would wake up from one of my nightmares to find the house silent and empty. I would look for him and he would be gone. I never despaired at this, for some reason, not like I had when my mother vanished. I knew he would return eventually, when he was finished with what I had decided must be ‘police business’. Sometimes I’d lie awake until he returned.
Once, as I lay awake, I heard him come into my room. I pretended to be asleep. I don’t know why, but I thought I’d be in trouble if he found out I was awake. He walked over to me and gently stroked my face. His hands smelled strange. Back then I didn’t know the scent of blood, and mixed with that faint, saline smell of brackish water. He whispered to me then, when he thought I was asleep, promised to protect me, to make sure that “it wouldn’t get me too”. There was a strangled sound to his words; I think he might have been crying. As he left, I opened my eyes just enough to see him. He stood by the door, his face in his hands, wearing light grey overalls that were stained with a thick, black substance. I often wish I’d asked him about that night. I wonder, if he’d known I was awake, if I had asked him in that moment of weakness… Well, it’s far too late for that now. Over the next couple of years, I noticed that my father seemed to be injured quite a lot, and there was rarely a time when he didn’t have some sort of plaster, bandage or bruise visible. I’d also occasionally find small bloodspots or smears on the floors or tables, especially in the hall. I got very good at cleaning them, and it never occurred to me to pay much attention to where they came from - I just assumed the blood was my father’s. He started staying home during the day, and told me he’d been permanently assigned to the night shift. I believed him, of course, and it was only after his arrest that I discovered that had been the point he’d resigned his job on the police force. I don’t know where the money came from after that, but we always seemed to have enough. Knowing what I know now, it sounds awful to say, but those were some of the happiest years of my childhood. I’d lost my mother, but my father doted on me, and together it seemed like we would get past our pain. I know I’ve made him sound like an alcoholic recluse who lived in the shed, but those were generally nocturnal activities for him. During the day was time he spent with me. There was only one time I recall him going into the shed during the day. This was a couple of years after my mother’s disappearance, and I must have been about ten. The phone in the kitchen started ringing, and my father was upstairs. I had recently received permission from my father to answer the phone, so I was excited to take up my new responsibility. I picked up the handset and said my memorised phone script into the receiver: “Hello, Montauk residence!” A man’s voice asked to speak with my father. It was a breathy voice, like that of an old man, and at the time I decided he had a German accent, though, when I was young, a lot of different nationalities and accents were lumped together in my mind under the label “German”. “What is this regarding?” I asked, as I had a whole phone conversation memorised and wanted to use as much of it as possible. The man sounded surprised at this and said hesitantly that he was from my father’s work. I asked him if he was from the Police and after a pause, he said “Yes”. He asked me to tell my father that it was Detective Rayner on the line, with a new case for him. At this point my father had come down to the kitchen to see who was calling. I told him, and he visibly paled. He took the handset from me and placed it to his ear, not speaking but listening very intently. After a moment, he told me to go up to my room, as this was a “grown-up” conversation. I turned to leave, but as I was heading up the stairs, the light bulb in the landing blew. The bulbs in our house broke often - my father said we had faulty wiring - so even at that age, I was quite adept at changing them. So I turned around and headed back downstairs to fetch a new bulb. As I approached the cabinet where we kept them, I heard my father’s voice from the kitchen. He was still on the phone and he sounded angry. I heard him say, “No, not already. Do it yourself.” Then he went very quiet and listened, before finally he said okay, that he’d do it as soon as possible. He put down the phone, then went over to the cupboard and poured himself a drink. He spent the rest of the day in the shed. The one question they kept asking me over and over during the investigation into my father was whether I knew where the rest of the bodies were. I told them the truth, that I had no idea. They claimed they wanted to confirm the identities of the victims, which they couldn’t easily do with what was left. I didn’t know where the bodies were, but I also didn’t tell them of the other way they might have identified the victims: my father’s photographs. I didn’t say anything, because I had no idea where he kept them, and I thought it would only make things worse if they couldn’t find them, but, yes, my father took photographs. During those five years, I had gradually started to notice more and more canisters of photograph film left around the house. This puzzled me since, though my dad and I did sometimes go on short holidays, we never took a lot of pictures. Asking him about it, my father told me he had been trying to learn photography, but didn’t trust developers not to ruin his films, as he’d apparently had problems before. I suggested he make himself a darkroom for developing them himself. I’d seen one in Ghostbusters 2 on TV the previous Christmas, and loved the idea of having a room like that. His face lit up, and he said he’d convert the guest bedroom. He then warned me that once it was done, I could never go in there without his supervision - there would be lots of dangerous chemicals. I didn’t care; I was just so glad that an idea of mine had made my father so happy. That summer, my father converted the guest bedroom into a darkroom for developing photographs. Like the shed, it was locked almost all the time, but occasionally my father would take me inside and we’d develop photographs of cars or trees, or whatever else a ten- or eleven-year-old with a camera takes pictures of. Mostly, though, my father worked in there alone, and kept the door locked while he did. He seemed almost happy those last couple of years. I didn’t have an unsupervised look inside until a few weeks before my father was caught. It was a Saturday evening in late autumn, and my father was out of the house. I spent the day watching TV and reading, but as it started to get dark, I found myself bored and alone. Passing by the door to what was now the darkroom, I noticed that the key was still in the lock. I sometimes think back to that day, and wonder if my father left it deliberately. He’d been so careful for so many years, and then he just forgot? I knew about the dangers, but something inside me couldn’t resist going in. There were no photos stored there. To this day, I don’t know where my father kept his developed pictures. But there were about a dozen images hung out to dry. They’re still vivid in my mind - black and white and washed in the deep red of the darkroom. Each photo was of a person’s face, close up and expressionless, their eyes were dull and glassy. I had never seen corpses before, so didn’t really understand what I was looking at. On each face were thick black lines that formed these symbols that I didn’t recognise, but they were clearly drawn on the faces themselves, not just on the photographs. I don’t remember the symbols in any great detail, I’m afraid, just the faces that they were drawn onto, though they weren’t people I recognised. Nor did they match any of the photos the police showed me later. I never went back in the darkroom after I closed and locked the door behind me that day. I spent the next weeks wondering if I should tell my father what I had seen. I didn’t know what I had seen - not really - but it felt like a bad secret, and I didn’t know what to do. Finally, I decided to tell him. He was drinking on the sofa at the time, and he turned off the television as soon as I mentioned going into the darkroom. He didn’t say a word as I told him what I’d seen, just looked at me with an expression on his face I’d never seen before. When I was finished, he stood up and walked towards me, before taking me in his arms and giving me the last and longest hug I would ever get from him. He asked me not to hate him, and told me it would soon be over, then turned to go. I had no idea what he was talking about, but when I asked, he just said that I needed to stay in my room until he got back. Then he left.
I did what I was told. I went up to my room and lay in bed, trying to sleep. The air was heavy somehow, and in the end I spent the night staring out of the window at the street below. I was waiting for something, though I didn’t know what. I remember it was 2:47 in the morning that it started. I finally had an alarm clock, and the image of it is still clear in my memory. I was thirsty, and went downstairs to get a glass of water. I turned on the tap, but what flowed out was a thick stream of muddy brown, brackish water. It smelled terrible, and I froze as I remembered the last time that had happened. My father still wasn’t home, and I went into the living room to watch desperately out of the window, looking down the street for his return. I was terrified. As I stared down the road, I was struck by how small the puddles of light were from the streetlamps made, stretching far into the distance. But not as far as they should’ve gone. There were fewer lights than there should be, I was sure of it. Then I saw the light at the end of the road blink off. There was no moon out that night, and all the houses were quiet; when the streetlights stopped, there was nothing but black. The next closest streetlight failed. Then the next. And the next. A slow, rolling blanket of darkness, making its unhurried way towards me. The few lights still on in the houses along the road also disappeared as the tide approached. I just sat there, unable to look away. Finally, it reached our house, and all at once the lights were gone and the darkness was inside. I heard a knock on the front door. Firm, unhurried and insistent. Silence. I did not move. The knocking came again, harder this time, and I heard the door rattle on its hinges. As it got louder it began to sound less and less like a person knocking and more like… wet meat being slammed into the sturdy wood of the front door. I turned and ran towards the phone. Picking it up, I heard a dial tone, and would have cried with relief if I wasn’t already crying with fear. I dialled the police, and as soon as they picked up I started to babble about what was happening. The lady on the other end was patient with me, and kept on gently insisting I give her the address until finally I was composed enough. Almost as soon as I had told her where I was, I heard the door begin to splinter. I dropped the phone and ran towards the back of the house. As I did so, I heard the front door burst behind me and I heard a… growl - it was rumbling, deep and breathy like a wild animal, but had a strange tone to it that I’ve never been able to place. No matter where I turned, it sounded like it came out of the darkness right behind me. I didn’t have time to think about it as I ran into the back garden, and into a light that I did not expect. There in front of me was the shed. It glowed, a dull, pulsing blue from every crack and seam. I didn’t stop, though, as I heard again that growl behind me, and I ran towards it and pulled at the door. The shed was not locked that night, and to this day I don’t know if I regret that fact. The first thing I saw when I opened that door was my father, bathed in the pale blue light. I couldn’t see any source for the glow, but it was so bright. He was knelt in the centre of an ornate chalk pattern scrawled on the rough wood of the floor. In front of him lay a man I didn’t know, but he was clearly dead - his chest had been cut open, and still gaped and bled feebly. In one hand my father held a wicked-looking knife, and in the other, he held the man’s heart. My father was chanting, and as the song rose and fell, the heart in his hand beat to its rhythm, and the blue light brightened and dimmed in time. I looked at the walls, and noticed that they were covered in shelves, each of which contained glass jars, full of what I would later learn was formaldehyde containing a single heart - which also beat in time with the one that dripped in my father’s hand. It was an odd thing to notice at the time, but I remember that the dead man wore the same pendant as my mother - a silver hand with a closed eye design. I don’t know how long I stood there staring. It might have been hours or it might have been only a moment or two. But then I heard that growl behind me and sensed a presence so close that I could feel the darkness on my back. Before I could react or move or scream, my father’s chant came to a crescendo and he plunged the dagger into the beating heart. All at once, the presence vanished, and the blue glow died. I could no longer hear the beating of the hearts. In the silence, I realised I could hear police sirens in the distance. I heard my dad tell me he was sorry, and then he started to run. You know the rest. Manhunt, trial, prison, death. They say there were 40 hearts kept in that shed, not including his last victim, but of course the police didn’t arrive until all that was left of it was a grisly trophy cabinet. Whatever I had seen my father doing in there, its effects had long since vanished. I don’t know why my father did what he did, and I doubt I ever will, but the more I go over these events in my head, the more sure I am that he had his reasons. ARCHIVIST Statement ends. There’s not much more to be added here. The police reports on Robert Montauk are predictably thorough, and there are few details to be added. The vast majority of research into this case has already been done by the serial killer enthusiast community which, though weird and deeply unsettling, does often prove to be surprisingly useful in high-publicity cases like this. In addition to the body of one Christopher Lorne, 40 preserved hearts were recovered from Robert Montauk’s shed. They were arranged on the walls on individual shelves forming patterns of eleven hearts on each inner wall and seven on the wall with the door. Photos of the patterns match up to the various formulae of sacred geometry but don’t appear to correspond exactly with any specific school. Of possible significance also is that fact that the rest of the bodies were never found. The symbol on the two pendants is that of the Peoples’ Church of the Divine Host, a small cult that grew around the defrocked Pentecostal minister Maxwell Rayner in London during the late eighties and early nineties. I knew I recognised the name from Statement 1106922 though, currently, it just looks like a coincidence. Christopher Lorne was a member of the church, and his family hadn’t heard from him in the six years prior to his murder. Mr. Rayner himself disappeared from public view sometime in 1994, and the group fragmented shortly afterwards. The police made many attempts to follow up on this lead in the Montauk case, but were never able to locate any members willing to make statements. The house on York Road is still inhabited, though the current owners pulled down the shed over a decade ago and replaced it with a patio. Robert Montauk died in Wakefield Prison on November 1st 2002. He was stabbed forty-seven times and bled out before anyone found him. After reading this statement, three points of interest occur: no culprit or weapon was ever found connected to the killing; he was apparently alone in his cell at the time, which was supposed to be locked; and at the time of his death the light bulb in his cell was found to have blown out, leaving him in darkness. Recording ends.
in the "Thrown away" story, a heart carved out of metal was found, and also in this story there's hearts in jars. Eyes and Patterns are recurring symbols and also Rayner seems to keep popping up (Rayner popped up as far as The Piper Story), I expect this Rayner person is pretty important and may play a larger role. Anyways, my theory for this story was this darkness thing that growled was the same thing that took the mother away and the father took it upon himself to prevent the same thing from happening to his child so he was sacrificing many people to appease this 'Darkness' thing. The lengths a Father goes to protect his child...
I forget things very easily so I know from other coments that the stories are connected but I keep forgetting the details that connect and it's driving me crazy
OH HEY THE DAD SHARES A NAME WITH ONE OF THE IMPORTANT CHARACTERS IN THE SCP FOUNDATION not sure if that’s intentional but if so that’s a cool reference!!!!
Spoiler for around Season 3 onward Robert Montauk was obviously a cultist of The Dark, but he and his wife wanted out, causing Rayner to send his attack monster to kill the family. Montauk counteracted this by aligning with The Hunt by hunting down the cultists and using their photos and remains to enact a ritual that keeps the monster at bay. Is the ritual connected to The Eye somehow? Perhaps having photographs of The Dark cultists enables him to channel The Eye, repelling the monster?
Damn, this one's good. What if the cult where the mother was tried to summon the creature but the ritual went wrong and the only way to stop it was to kill all those who where present during said ritual?
God I’m completely taken by this series. I feel like I should be taking notes. Not in a negative sense but because I want to know. I want to catch the leads, the oddities, before they’re clear. So many names. So many little strange points. I am completely in love. Very surprised this isn’t more popular
hey! don't feel too overwhelmed, it's written in a way that if you notice some reoccurring things when they get explained you'll be like ohhhh yk? I did my first listen without taking notes but I had no problem following the story and figuring out stuff in previous eps after having context. hope you enjoy it till the end!
same, I think it's going to be my new obsession. I hope the community around this isn't dead since it apparently ended 2 years ago, but it's good to see some other people are new like me
Amazing read. I just recently found out about the channel and I can't stop listening. These stories have just enough information about the events to draw interest, and leave just as much to the unknown. Keeping that fear of the unknown, dripping off every story. Keep up the great work, I'll be listening!!
It's extremly interesting to me - and I didn't see anyone else mention this - is that was also a Dr. ROBERT MONTAUK working for the SCP-Foundation, specifically on SCP-001 "The Scarlet King". This is a completely different universe. But interesting still...
What kind of creeps me out rn is that I could picture the pendant so well, because I've seen it before. Several times. Like, I very clearly remember it the way you described it, a silver, downturned, flat hand with a simplified closed eye on it, ad a pendant. At first that didn't surprise me since I thought, 'ah, yes, I remember, it's a pretty common pendant, isn't it?', but when I look it up I find nothing. Maybe my mind was just playing tricks on me and just combined a few similar symbols/pendants/... I've seen before, but there was such a familiarity when I pictured your pendant ...
I wondered how Jon (The character not the actor) handled reading these stories and not got a bit traumatized at all. I remember one of the stories after he finished he just called it "concerning" when it whould clearly would've made me stay awake all night.
So I started watching these last night, and I find it interesting that Reiner keeps popping up, definitely going to keep an ear open for that name. Seems like quite an interesting series
Where? I keep looking through the comments and people are saying the name has popped up a lot but so far I've only seen it here and a comment saying it was the the episode about the spirit of war. No spoilers past episode 9
Okay I'm new here and i made a connection myself: that no weapon was found when the father died in prison reminds me of lat episode when the father apparently died of suicide but no weapon was found either
Also the weird geometric patterns. The father from the previous episode was obsessed with it and the father from this episode arranged the jars in some geometric patterns.
Overlay Sarcastic Productions brought me here. The promise of horror stories in a podcast format + the payoff of attention got me interested. Love it so far. I'm ready to grab my flashlight and open that creaking door to the dark basement and see where the shine of my flashlight leads me Oo
SPOILERS So, coming here after finishing the series... the whole *pause* and "yes, this is Detective Rayner" is horrifying. Earlier, even after learning about the Fears and the Divine Church, I'd assumed the Church had killed the mother, the Dark was just hunting them from their connection, and killing those people warded it off. Now, though... I think Rayner was straight-up threatening Montauk into killing people of his choice ~~potentially even enemies of the Church?~~ and sent the Beast when he caught on to what Montauk was doing
I’ve listened to 9 episodes in one day and I’m completely obsessed with this but the only thing I’m worried about is that I don’t think that I’ll have caught up by the time the final episodes air :( still this is an amazing podcast though and better late than never
First time listener theory: the dad is getting rid of evil mimics as a part of a cult to keep his daughter safe since the mom was a part of the cult and they wanted the daughter too
from 26:15 to around 26:41, you can hear a beating heart. i never realized before because i never listened to the podcast with headphones on but that is so cool
I'm relistening to The Magnus Archives for this years spooky month. All as great as I remember them, including this one. But, for some reason, that heartbeat sound effects REALLY got to me this time 😨
Same! I binged the series until around 150 and then I had fully caught up and listened to it episodically from then on, so I really wanna be able to binge it back to front without the pauses in between the later eps
This statements mentions Raynor again- the previous mention was in The Piper episode 7... In ep 7 the statement was made in 1922, amd the archavist makes a remark about how Gertrude put it in the 2000s box... THIS STATEMENT WAS MADE IN 2002, AND MENTIONS RAYNOR! Gertrude connected this, and i bet the cases were right next to eachother. There was method to Gertrudes madness for sure
Yep, the steady anticipation of the reveal of what the hell is in the shed and the strange details being told throughout make this a great episode for me.
What's weird to me is that it says here that Robert Montauk dies on November 1st, 2002, and that Julia Montauk gives her statement on December 3rd, 2002, but she says that he had been killed "last year". Was that a mistake? Did she mean last month? Or was the date of her statement or Robert's death a year off?
I expected our archivist to make a judgemental crack or snide remark about the recording- and was surprised he did neither. It seems he does have his moments - and to make light of Julia would be cruel ,to say the least.
I got unnerved when I heard a car alarm go off around the same time the Darkness came for Julia. It indirectly made the story creepier. What I love about these stories is that the prose is never too long or too maddeningly brief. It doesn't spoil us with any exposition, but leaves us enough breadcrumbs so we can connect the dots- or come to our own conclusions...and our own imaginations always conjure up far worse fates than the real thing. I have three theories as to what happened here: 1) Julia's mother was taken by a cult. Julia was selected to be the next victim unless her father complied with the cult to do their dark bidding- in which they would invoke the Darkness. 2) The Darkness took her mother. The only way the father could keep it at bay was by joining a secret organization- and human sacrifice. 3) This one is a mix of the first two. The mother was taken by cultists- and the father went on a revenge killing spree of sorts, sacrificing the cultists who murdered his wife, to the Darkness. One can only that with her father's death, that the Darkness is sated (for now). We can only hope Julia can continue to live as peacefully as one can.
This is my second time listening to the series and I find it assuming all of the people who are listening for the first time, speculating about this episode unaware of how important robert/juila montorqe and rainer are later on in the story, especially seasons 4 & 5
OH FUCK I DIDNT THINK OF THAT. I mean that doesn't really explain why the water was like that when the mom was gone but that would explain why the bodies were never found.
First time listener after a friend kept insisting I would love it. I do. Key things that poped out this episode on top of the obvious ones already written: 1. Rayner/Lightner-is there a reason for similar sounding names? 2. Was 47 the number of kills he did? Or just a random number? 3. The evil eye/hamsa is to ward off evil- is the closed eye subverting this to show being blind to evil or embracing it?
I listened to the whole series in a week and now I'm listening from the start again and I cannot get over how well this story is put together. Amazing work, guys ❤️
I'm on probably my fourth relisten and this is still one of my favorite episodes. I remember listening to it the first time--I was on a walk and I kept thinking "oh, this one's *different*" There's just something about this one that's special. The show overall is amazing but this episode stands out, it has an incredible narrative and a lot of emotional weight.
These episodes are wonderful, looking for forward to listening to all those still ahead of me^^ Thank you very very much for the work you put into these!
What are you talking about? The Magnus Archives has been this really big thing everyone knows about for quite a while. The low view numbers are probably due to the fact that it's posted on a bunch of other sites and it's a podcast; most people tend to listen to podcasts on places other than TH-cam.
Statement of Julia Montauk, regarding the actions and motivations of her father, the serial killer Robert Montauk. Original statement given December 3rd, 2002. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins. ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT) My father was a murderer. There’s no way I can reasonably deny it at this point; the evidence provided by the police was overwhelming, and I saw his shed myself. I’m not here to try and clear his name. There wouldn’t be much point, anyway, as I’m sure you know he died in prison last year. Seven years isn’t much to have served out of a life sentence, but I doubt it was the early parole he’d have hoped for. Sorry, maybe that wasn’t in the best taste. Still, his passing is why I feel like I can tell this story; something I’ve never really felt free to do before now. I always expected him to talk about it during the media frenzy that surrounded his trial, but for whatever reason, he kept quiet. I think I understand a bit more now why he never spoke about it, preferring people draw their own conclusions, but at the time, I couldn’t fathom why he just sat there silently, letting others talk for him. I’d like to tell someone now, though, and I’ve only recently finished my court-appointed counselling sessions, so I’d rather not tell the tabloids and have ‘MY FATHER KILLED TO FUEL CULT MAGIC, SAYS DAUGHTER OF MONSTER’ splashed over page 7 of the weekend edition. So that leaves you guys. Respectable is hardly the word I’d use, but it’s better than nothing. So yes, my father killed at least 40 people over the course of the five years prior to his arrest in 1995. I won’t recount the lurid details - if you’re interested you can look up Robert Montauk in the newspaper archive of any library. There’ll be plenty there: the papers clearly didn’t care much about the American bombing, because in April of that year they seemed to be talking about nothing but my father. There are also a couple of books on him, none of which I can really recommend, but I guess Ray Cowan’s No Bodies in the Shed is the closest to what I’d consider accurate, although it does imply that I was an accomplice, despite the fact that I was twelve years old at the time. Honestly, I discovered most of the details from the newspapers and the court, just like everyone else. My father spent my formative years killing dozens of people and I had no idea. But the more I think back over my childhood, the more sure I am that there was something else going on. I don’t have any theories as to what any of this means, but I just need to get it down on paper somewhere. And this seems as good a place as any. I’ve always lived in the same house on York Road in Dartford. Even now, after all that’s happened, and all I know about what went on there, I can’t bring myself to leave. As far as I know, the shed came with the house; it always sat in the garden: old, wooden and silent. I don’t recall it being used until after the night my mother disappeared. That’s when everything started to get strange. My memory of early childhood is patchy - mostly isolated images and impressions - but I remember the night she vanished like it was yesterday. I was seven years old, and had been to the cinema that evening for the very first time in my life. We had been to see The Witches at what was back then the ABC, down on Shaftesbury Avenue. I had seen films before, of course, on our tiny living room television, but to see a movie on the big screen was awe-inspiring. The film itself was terrifying, though, and even now I’d say it’s far scarier than any “child’s film” has a right to be. I remember I spent a lot of it close to tears, but had been so proud of the fact that I hadn’t cried at all. When we got home, I lay awake for a long time. That scene where Luke is transformed into a mouse kept playing in my mind, and for some reason, it left me too afraid to go to sleep. It was then that I heard a thump from downstairs, like something heavy falling over. I didn’t have a clock in my room, so I had no idea what the time was, but I recall looking out of the window and the world was dark and utterly silent. The thump came again, and I decided to go downstairs and see what it was. The landing was almost pitch black, and I tried to be as quiet as possible so nobody would know I was there. The fourth stair down from the top of the staircase always creaked, and still does in fact, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard it creak louder than it did that night as I crept down them so slowly. The lights downstairs were all turned off, except for the kitchen light, which I could see from the bottom of the stairway. I walked into the kitchen to find it empty. The back door stood open, and a cool breeze blew through it that made me shiver in my pyjamas. I saw something shiny laying on the table. Reaching up, I found my mother’s pendant. The design had always struck me as beautiful: it was silver, an abstract shape of a hand with a symbol on it that I believe was meant to represent a closed eye. I had never seen her take it off. In my child’s mind, I assumed that she had just left it on the table, an accident, and that the open door meant nothing. I went back upstairs, necklace clutched firmly in my hand, to return it to her. She wasn’t in bed, of course. The space next to where my father lay fast asleep was empty. I gently touched my sleeping father’s shoulder, and he awoke slowly. I asked him where mum was, and he started to say something when he saw the silver chain clutched in my hands. He quickly got out of bed and started to get dressed. As he pulled on a shirt, he asked me where I had found it, and I told him, on the kitchen table. Following me downstairs, his gaze was immediately locked on the open door, and he paused. Instead of going outside, he walked over to the kitchen sink and turned on one of the taps. Immediately there began to flow a dark, dirty-looking liquid and the sick, salty smell of brackish water hit my nose, though at the time I didn’t understand that’s what it was. The light in the kitchen blew out at that moment and the room got very dark. My father told me everything was fine, that I should go back to bed. His hands shook slightly as he took the pendant from me, and I didn’t believe him, but I did what I was told anyway. I don’t know how long I lay there, waiting for my father to return that night, but I know it was getting light outside when I finally fell asleep. Eventually I woke up. The house was quiet and empty. I had missed the start of school by hours, but that was fine, because I didn’t want to leave the house. I just sat in the living room, silent and still. It was almost evening again by the time my father actually returned. His face was pale and he barely looked at me, just walked straight to the cupboard and poured himself a glass of scotch. He sat next to me, drained the glass, and told me that my mother was gone. I didn’t understand. Still don’t, really. But he said it with such finality that I started to cry, and I didn’t stop for a very long time. My father was a policeman, as I’m sure you’ve read, so as a child I just assumed that the police had looked for my mother and failed to find her. It wasn’t until much later that I discovered they’d never even had a missing persons report filed on her. As far as I know, I never had any living grandparents, and apparently no-one noticed she was gone - which was strange, as I have vague memories of her having friends over a lot before she vanished. Everyone assumes she was one of my father’s first victims, but there was never enough evidence to add it to the official tally. It doesn’t really matter.
For what it’s worth, I don’t think he did it. I won’t deny it makes sense from the outside, but I remember how devastated he was when she disappeared. He started drinking a lot. I think he did try to look after me as best he could, but most nights he just ended up passed out in his chair. That was also when he started spending a lot of time in the shed. I’d never really paid it much attention before. As far as I was concerned, the sturdy wooden structure was just the home of spiders’ nests and the rusted garden tools my parents would use once a year to attack the overgrown wilderness that was our back garden. But soon after my mother’s disappearance, a sturdy new padlock was placed on the door, and my father spent a lot of time inside. He told me he was woodworking, and sometimes I’d hear the sounds of power tools from inside, and he’d present me with some small wooden token he had made, but mostly there was silence. It should probably have bothered me more than it did, the hours he spent in there, and that odd smell I sometimes noticed, like tinned meat. But I never really paid it much attention, and I had my own grief to deal with. He was gone most nights as well. Often, I would wake up from one of my nightmares to find the house silent and empty. I would look for him and he would be gone. I never despaired at this, for some reason, not like I had when my mother vanished. I knew he would return eventually, when he was finished with what I had decided must be ‘police business’. Sometimes I’d lie awake until he returned. Once, as I lay awake, I heard him come into my room. I pretended to be asleep. I don’t know why, but I thought I’d be in trouble if he found out I was awake. He walked over to me and gently stroked my face. His hands smelled strange. Back then I didn’t know the scent of blood, and mixed with that faint, saline smell of brackish water. He whispered to me then, when he thought I was asleep, promised to protect me, to make sure that “it wouldn’t get me too”. There was a strangled sound to his words; I think he might have been crying. As he left, I opened my eyes just enough to see him. He stood by the door, his face in his hands, wearing light grey overalls that were stained with a thick, black substance. I often wish I’d asked him about that night. I wonder, if he’d known I was awake, if I had asked him in that moment of weakness… Well, it’s far too late for that now. Over the next couple of years, I noticed that my father seemed to be injured quite a lot, and there was rarely a time when he didn’t have some sort of plaster, bandage or bruise visible. I’d also occasionally find small blood spots or smears on the floors or tables, especially in the hall. I got very good at cleaning them, and it never occurred to me to pay much attention to where they came from - I just assumed the blood was my father’s.He started staying home during the day, and told me he’d been permanently assigned to the night shift. I believed him, of course, and it was only after his arrest that I discovered that had been the point he’d resigned his job on the police force. I don’t know where the money came from after that, but we always seemed to have enough.Knowing what I know now, it sounds awful to say, but those were some of the happiest years of my childhood. I’d lost my mother, but my father doted on me, and together it seemed like we would get past our pain. I know I’ve made him sound like an alcoholic recluse who lived in the shed, but those were generally nocturnal activities for him. During the day was time he spent with me. There was only one time I recall him going into the shed during the day. This was a couple of years after my mother’s disappearance, and I must have been about ten. The phone in the kitchen started ringing, and my father was upstairs. I had recently received permission from my father to answer the phone, so I was excited to take up my new responsibility. I picked up the handset and said my memorised phone script into the receiver: “Hello, Montauk residence!”
A man’s voice asked to speak with my father. It was a breathy voice, like that of an old man, and at the time I decided he had a German accent, though, when I was young, a lot of different nationalities and accents were lumped together in my mind under the label “German”. “What is this regarding?” I asked, as I had a whole phone conversation memorised and wanted to use as much of it as possible. The man sounded surprised at this and said hesitantly that he was from my father’s work. I asked him if he was from the Police and after a pause, he said “Yes”. He asked me to tell my father that it was Detective Rayner on the line, with a new case for him. At this point my father had come down to the kitchen to see who was calling. I told him, and he visibly paled. He took the handset from me and placed it to his ear, not speaking but listening very intently. After a moment, he told me to go up to my room, as this was a “grown-up” conversation. I turned to leave, but as I was heading up the stairs, the light bulb in the landing blew. The bulbs in our house broke often - my father said we had faulty wiring - so even at that age, I was quite adept at changing them. So I turned around and headed back downstairs to fetch a new bulb. As I approached the cabinet where we kept them, I heard my father’s voice from the kitchen. He was still on the phone and he sounded angry. I heard him say, “No, not already. Do it yourself.” Then he went very quiet and listened, before finally he said okay, that he’d do it as soon as possible. He put down the phone, then went over to the cupboard and poured himself a drink. He spent the rest of the day in the shed. The one question they kept asking me over and over during the investigation into my father was whether I knew where the rest of the bodies were. I told them the truth, that I had no idea. They claimed they wanted to confirm the identities of the victims, which they couldn’t easily do with what was left. I didn’t know where the bodies were, but I also didn’t tell them of the other way they might have identified the victims: my father’s photographs. I didn’t say anything, because I had no idea where he kept them, and I thought it would only make things worse if they couldn’t find them, but, yes, my father took photographs. During those five years, I had gradually started to notice more and more canisters of photograph film left around the house. This puzzled me since, though my dad and I did sometimes go on short holidays, we never took a lot of pictures. Asking him about it, my father told me he had been trying to learn photography, but didn’t trust developers not to ruin his films, as he’d apparently had problems before. I suggested he make himself a darkroom for developing them himself. I’d seen one in Ghostbusters 2 on TV the previous Christmas, and loved the idea of having a room like that. His face lit up, and he said he’d convert the guest bedroom. He then warned me that once it was done, I could never go in there without his supervision - there would be lots of dangerous chemicals. I didn’t care; I was just so glad that an idea of mine had made my father so happy. That summer, my father converted the guest bedroom into a darkroom for developing photographs. Like the shed, it was locked almost all the time, but occasionally my father would take me inside and we’d develop photographs of cars or trees, or whatever else a ten- or eleven-year-old with a camera takes pictures of. Mostly, though, my father worked in there alone, and kept the door locked while he did. He seemed almost happy those last couple of years. I didn’t have an unsupervised look inside until a few weeks before my father was caught. It was a Saturday evening in late autumn, and my father was out of the house. I spent the day watching TV and reading, but as it started to get dark, I found myself bored and alone. Passing by the door to what was now the darkroom, I noticed that the key was still in the lock. I sometimes think back to that day, and wonder if my father left it deliberately. He’d been so careful for so many years, and then he just forgot? I knew about the dangers, but something inside me couldn’t resist going in. There were no photos stored there. To this day, I don’t know where my father kept his developed pictures. But there were about a dozen images hung out to dry. They’re still vivid in my mind - black and white and washed in the deep red of the darkroom. Each photo was of a person’s face, close up and expressionless, their eyes were dull and glassy. I had never seen corpses before, so didn’t really understand what I was looking at. On each face were thick black lines that formed these symbols that I didn’t recognise, but they were clearly drawn on the faces themselves, not just on the photographs. I don’t remember the symbols in any great detail, I’m afraid, just the faces that they were drawn onto, though they weren’t people I recognised. Nor did they match any of the photos the police showed me later.
I never went back in the darkroom after I closed and locked the door behind me that day. I spent the next weeks wondering if I should tell my father what I had seen. I didn’t know what I had seen - not really - but it felt like a bad secret, and I didn’t know what to do. Finally, I decided to tell him. He was drinking on the sofa at the time, and he turned off the television as soon as I mentioned going into the darkroom. He didn’t say a word as I told him what I’d seen, just looked at me with an expression on his face I’d never seen before. When I was finished, he stood up and walked towards me, before taking me in his arms and giving me the last and longest hug I would ever get from him. He asked me not to hate him, and told me it would soon be over, then turned to go. I had no idea what he was talking about, but when I asked, he just said that I needed to stay in my room until he got back. Then he left. I did what I was told. I went up to my room and lay in bed, trying to sleep. The air was heavy somehow, and in the end I spent the night staring out of the window at the street below. I was waiting for something, though I didn’t know what. I remember it was 2:47 in the morning that it started. I finally had an alarm clock, and the image of it is still clear in my memory. I was thirsty, and went downstairs to get a glass of water. I turned on the tap, but what flowed out was a thick stream of muddy brown, brackish water. It smelled terrible, and I froze as I remembered the last time that had happened. My father still wasn’t home, and I went into the living room to watch desperately out of the window, looking down the street for his return. I was terrified. As I stared down the road, I was struck by how small the puddles of light were from the streetlamps made, stretching far into the distance. But not as far as they should’ve gone. There were fewer lights than there should be, I was sure of it. Then I saw the light at the end of the road blink off. There was no moon out that night, and all the houses were quiet; when the streetlights stopped, there was nothing but black. The next closest streetlight failed. Then the next. And the next. A slow, rolling blanket of darkness, making its unhurried way towards me. The few lights still on in the houses along the road also disappeared as the tide approached. I just sat there, unable to look away. Finally, it reached our house, and all at once the lights were gone and the darkness was inside.I heard a knock on the front door. Firm, unhurried and insistent. Silence. I did not move. The knocking came again, harder this time, and I heard the door rattle on its hinges. As it got louder it began to sound less and less like a person knocking and more like… wet meat being slammed into the sturdy wood of the front door. I turned and ran towards the phone. Picking it up, I heard a dial tone, and would have cried with relief if I wasn’t already crying with fear. I dialled the police, and as soon as they picked up I started to babble about what was happening. The lady on the other end was patient with me, and kept on gently insisting I give her the address until finally I was composed enough. Almost as soon as I had told her where I was, I heard the door begin to splinter. I dropped the phone and ran towards the back of the house. As I did so, I heard the front door burst behind me and I heard a… growl - it was rumbling, deep and breathy like a wild animal, but had a strange tone to it that I’ve never been able to place. No matter where I turned, it sounded like it came out of the darkness right behind me. I didn’t have time to think about it as I ran into the back garden, and into a light that I did not expect. There in front of me was the shed. It glowed, a dull, pulsing blue from every crack and seam. I didn’t stop, though, as I heard again that growl behind me, and I ran towards it and pulled at the door. The shed was not locked that night, and to this day I don’t know if I regret that fact. The first thing I saw when I opened that door was my father, bathed in the pale blue light. I couldn’t see any source for the glow, but it was so bright. He was knelt in the centre of an ornate chalk pattern scrawled on the rough wood of the floor. In front of him lay a man I didn’t know, but he was clearly dead - his chest had been cut open, and still gaped and bled feebly. In one hand my father held a wicked-looking knife, and in the other, he held the man’s heart. My father was chanting, and as the song rose and fell, the heart in his hand beat to its rhythm, and the blue light brightened and dimmed in time. I looked at the walls, and noticed that they were covered in shelves, each of which contained glass jars, full of what I would later learn was formaldehyde containing a single heart - which also beat in time with the one that dripped in my father’s hand. It was an odd thing to notice at the time, but I remember that the dead man wore the same pendant as my mother - a silver hand with a closed eye design. I don’t know how long I stood there staring. It might have been hours or it might have been only a moment or two. But then I heard that growl behind me and sensed a presence so close that I could feel the darkness on my back. Before I could react or move or scream, my father’s chant came to a crescendo and he plunged the dagger into the beating heart. All at once, the presence vanished, and the blue glow died. I could no longer hear the beating of the hearts. In the silence, I realised I could hear police sirens in the distance. I heard my dad tell me he was sorry, and then he started to run. You know the rest. Manhunt, trial, prison, death. They say there were 40 hearts kept in that shed, not including his last victim, but of course the police didn’t arrive until all that was left of it was a grisly trophy cabinet. Whatever I had seen my father doing in there, its effects had long since vanished. I don’t know why my father did what he did, and I doubt I ever will, but the more I go over these events in my head, the more sure I am that he had his reasons. Statement ends. There’s not much more to be added here. The police reports on Robert Montauk are predictably thorough, and there are few details to be added. The vast majority of research into this case has already been done by the serial killer enthusiast community which, though weird and deeply unsettling, does often prove to be surprisingly useful in high-publicity cases like this. In addition to the body of one Christopher Lorne, 40 preserved hearts were recovered from Robert Montauk’s shed. They were arranged on the walls on individual shelves forming patterns of eleven hearts on each inner wall and seven on the wall with the door. Photos of the patterns match up to the various formulae of sacred geometry but don’t appear to correspond exactly with any specific school. Of possible significance also is that fact that the rest of the bodies were never found. The symbol on the two pendants is that of the Peoples’ Church of the Divine Host, a small cult that grew around the defrocked Pentecostal minister Maxwell Rayner in London during the late eighties and early nineties. I knew I recognised the name from Statement 1106922 though, currently, it just looks like a coincidence. Christopher Lorne was a member of the church, and his family hadn’t heard from him in the six years prior to his murder. Mr. Rayner himself disappeared from public view sometime in 1994, and the group fragmented shortly afterwards. The police made many attempts to follow up on this lead in the Montauk case, but were never able to locate any members willing to make statements. The house on York Road is still inhabited, though the current owners pulled down the shed over a decade ago and replaced it with a patio. Robert Montauk died in Wakefield Prison on November 1st 2002. He was stabbed forty-seven times and bled out before anyone found him. After reading this statement, three points of interest occur: no culprit or weapon was ever found connected to the killing; he was apparently alone in his cell at the time, which was supposed to be locked; and at the time of his death the light bulb in his cell was found to have blown out, leaving him in darkness. Recording ends.
SPOLERS: Ok so I’m on my third(?) watch. And I’m thinking about the connections between the entities. You get obvious groupings like: -the dark and the buried (being trapped in darkness) - the dark and the hunt (something you cannot see is chasing you) -the dark and the vast (there is nowhere to hide and something is out there) (also wow the dark is a whore pairing up with everyone jeez) -the stranger and the spiral (paranoia and madness) -the flesh and the corruption (they’re besties) Etc But you also get entities that are natural enemies. -the buried and the vast - the dark and the desolation -the end and the flesh But interestingly, something most people don’t talk about is how The Eye, aka Jon, The Dark and The Buried are natural opponents. And The Buried and The Dark feature so heavily very early in the series. It’s almost like those two Entities are trying to get to Jon before he fully becomes The Archivist. Maybe im crazy.
the theme spirals and bones and heat seems to be recurring here, the coffin's pattern and supernatural warmth, the whole burnout episode, the guy that got impostered, and that was the missing piece of his table, wasn't it?
i don't know what is going on with eyes but it keeps repeating and I think it is nice for some reason, I like the eye symbolism. so, Julia's dad was a killer that I think scarfieced others to what that Thing is to help save her or them. Also did he kill 47 people? is that why he was stabbed 47 times?
i have a monkey brain... i can't remember names for the love of my life. but i hopes there a wiki out there that can help cuz my ass need it cuz from what i can gather there alot of easter egg and name drop here and i feel like im missing out.
![[안방1열 풀캠4K] 베이비몬스터 'DRIP' (BABYMONSTER FullCam)│@SBS Inkigayo 241110](http://i.ytimg.com/vi/AQ4RIghEvUs/mqdefault.jpg)
![[UNCUT] The Loyal Pin ปิ่นภักดิ์ EP.15 (1/4)](http://i.ytimg.com/vi/TLBjiHvkKtE/mqdefault.jpg)
Evertime i watch one of these videos i keep getting ads for life insurance and funerals and it’s mildly unsettling
Elspeth maybe you'll show up next season?
Edel brosnan i’ll be damned if I die before finishing every episode, i’ll haunt the podcast if I have to
Elspeth I admire your goals
Trust me having cheery music of an ad about food in the middle of the story can be disconcerting too.
@@germanerd6148 yea i got a mcdonalds ad on the middle of the video😭😭
Things I noticed so far:
1. Eyes and Patterns seem to be a recurring theme.
2. Rayner.
3. Missing people are involved in every episode.
4. I’m starting to think the last Archivist was “disorganized” for a reason.
5. The Archivist has Opinions and it is amusing.
@@chiaracongiuhughes9102 the archivist isn’t just Jons creepy title it’s quite literally his job, and the conclusion that Gertrude had a plan isn’t that hard to reach. You don’t really need hindsight for this
Hands as well.
@@Scardy ???
Indeed
eyes are also really big in the fan art so they feel like a Big Deal
So far we have living darkness, spirit of war, a few different types of imposters, fractals, fire, spiders, books, eyes, STD bugs and for some reason a coffin.
*nervous future laughter*
@@doctorjay8673 Literally same
As a medical professional, "STD bugs" in TMA context is...distressing.
@@doctorjay8673 *hue hue hue*
Dont lie to me walt you sussy baka
"...He was stabbed 47 times"
Me: "carrrlllllll, that kills people!!!"
I was looking for this exact comment!!!
glad it wasn't just us lmao
28 StAb WoUnDs!
@@GhostCabinet EYYYY, A FELLOW DETROIT BECOME HUMAN FAN!!!
My theory is that whatever ritual he was performing was out of love for his child, sacrificing people to whatever "The darkness" is, so that when it came, it would not take his child, possibly at the cost that the final sacrifice must be himself.
as someone who's finished the series, it's quite likely that's what was happening
@@aubarlowe maybe dont comment on earlier episodes if youve finished the series, ffs
@@quoipi pal, it's not like i actually spoiled anything. I never said it IS what happened, as it is never confirmed/denied, and I didn't give any plot details out. Plus, if I literally begin with "as someone who's finished the series", if you're SO afraid of spoilers, you'd stop reading. Regardless, I'm someone who always puts spoiler warnings when I _do_ talk about them. So check out a doctor to get that stick pulled out of your ass.
@@aubarlowe Your reply was so short that anyone who reads decently fast can't just "stop reading" when they see that phrase, since for me at least by the time I'd processed that you'd said that I was already done reading the comment.
Whilst I *now* understand that you are someone who applies proper spoilers, I knew nothing about you initially and as such the significance of your comment was up in the air. If you're gonna say "as someone who's finished the series", it wasn't exactly unfair of me to assume that what came next was knowledge resulting from having finished the series, hence me assuming it's a spoiler.
@@quoipi I see your point, and I'm sorry for worrying you about spoilers. But I also feel like "it's probably what happened" should give away that it's a guess and not spoils regardless
dude.. the subtle noise of the heart beating is mildly unsettling, even more so when it stops
I was not even sure if it was the recording or the sound of my own heart echoing in the headphones.
I had to take my headphones out to make sure it was from the recording and not my neighbors
My heart started pounding when it stopped
I also heard smth yesterday, while I was listening to Burned Out. When the character started uprooting the tree, a creaking of wood could be heard. Nice
Dude if they ever decided to do a legit tv series of this it would be the scariest show created. They wouldn’t have to change a thing. This is terrifying.
Omg xD
Yes, please!!!!!!!
itd defeat the purpose of the show, this show is tailor made for podcasting
Yes I was just thinking this episode would do really well on screen.
It wouldn't work
When we watch a show on TV we think on a present
Here, hearing the story with that emotionless narration keeps a reminder of the story already happened, giving it an unintentional nihilistic feeling, making the events even eerier
reading all of the comments saying names are important makes me regret being so bad at remembering names...
THAT'S SO ME THOOOOO! At least we know what's going on from these comments😭
I remember zero of the names so far, fuck
That's why I just scrounge through the comments that already have the name remembered lol
sameeeee, all i remember is gertude TnT (and Jon, our narrator)
Some connections so far: 1) most cases happened in late autumn/November 2) there is a missing person in almost every one of these 3) weird swirling patterns are mentioned 4) odd scents are also mentioned
i know this was a month ago but id also like to add the mentions of the name "reyner" (i believe thats how its spelt). MAG 7, a guy named Joseph Reyner was mentioned to be in the crater as wilfred.
now also burning and the eye
Me listening to these in November 👀
November... When it gets darker.
@@VictoriaLopez-xk2jf Saaame
Yeah we're definitely hearing the name Reyner a lot. In MAG 7, a guy named Joseph Reyner was in the same crater as Wilfred (the poet who was shot).
Oh, seriously? Haven't noticed, thank you
So twice ?
Time stamp ?
@@jazz5842i’m not sure, but it’s just mentioned that they find him in the same crater as wilfred. a lot of people are referencing him in this episode, and he’s the one calling Julia’s dad to do something (“detective” reyner)
@@jazz5842also just realised maxwell rayner is mentioned at the end as a cult leader. (the guy what got killed at the end, the one cut up). really confusing tbh
I'M HERE FOR THE CULT STUFF-
We saw the add on Craigslist
I'm so glad to find bfu fans here
I saw the ad on Craigslist
the stories of the families of serial killers always make me so sad. this poor lady seems to be doing everything she can to move on from a really traumatic childhood, but that must be such a struggle when the official story doesn't answer the questions her personal experience raised. it sounds like the statement giver's dad was trying to protect his family from this cult and whatever weird powers they were messing with. gross water, weird animal noises, and lights going off? very strange. the narrator mentioned hearing the name rayner before, which i remember from the wilfred owen episode. him saying the name being a coincidence leads me to believe it definitely isn't, but idk what the connection would be.
Also of note the mom had the same pendant, she might have been a cult escapee that started a family and they came for her and her daughter, which implies there something with blood ties going on as well. The fact that the father seems to have been working for someone and all the victims were cult members is curious as well.
I wonder if her father was actively hunting and killing Not Thems. It would explain why the photos of the corpses her father kept didn't match the photos the police brought. One was of the actual victims, probably the father's photos, and the other is of the Not Them. I always wondered what happened to the victims bodies of Not Them
that is genius! im rewatching the series and it's amazing how many things you don't realize at first
I feel bad for the comparatively "innocent" families that get caught up in all this stuff. If not for the mom's involvement in that cult their family might have avoided being pulled into all the STUFF.
ppl say everything's connected and the names are important but DAMN it's so many of them 😂 I think I heard of Rayner or whatshisname before but I already forgot where :((
Honestly if it's super SUPER central to they plot, the show generally does a good job of reminding you... though I will admit I've looked into the wiki a couple of times for a refresher.
It's when you relisten (they're on hiatus currently so that's what I'm doing) that you REALLY start to make all of the little connections that make the story that much richer!
Rayner came up in MA7 as Joseph Rayner, the soldier who died in the crater Alan was found in! I'm strugglkmg to keep track too, i didn't pay attention at all in the first few episodes
@@BeauxBeetles it was Wilfred Owen in the crater with Rayner. Who's Alan??
@@trinetra2011He works at the Archives I think.
@@C_Ow No, there is an Alan from the episode with the trash guys who had found the bags of teeth and baby heads and a metal heart with Alan's name on it, and he disappeared after that last bag was found. I believe the previous person is getting them mixed up with Wilfred.
i'm re-listening to all these episodes before season 5 drops.... damn, you don't notice much the first time through. definitely worth listening through twice cause all the names and stories are connected. you don't realize you miss most of it until things start coming together with an actual plot from season 2 and onwards. this masterpiece is 160 episodes long.... goddamn i'm excited.
ooooh im listening through for the first time, ill keep this in mind
I finished season 1, but I'm re listening s1 because I feel like I missed something and I don't want to start s2 cus im kinda... scared? But not in that way. Im scared because if I listen it now I will never be able to make my own researchs kinda. But I know that in most episodes is about an Eye or eyes
I know! Hearing "Rayner" in this as the guy on the phone made me realize this is actually a Dark statement. I guess I just lumped it in with Hunt, because of Julia.
I’m wondering... what if Mr Sims predecessor archived each incident based on whatever creature is believed to be responsible. He mentions that the piper was filed along with early 2000’s cases I feel this is interesting.
I'm trying to keep up but I can't even connect stuff that happens in the same story. Like the last one... The dead guy appears then vanishes leaving the floor burnt. The tree bleeds. There's an apple inside a box below the tree and it decays and turn into spiders. The hand around the waste of the lady who died... How does any of this connect?
ARCHIVIST
Statement of Julia Montauk, regarding the actions and motivations of her father, the serial killer Robert Montauk. Original statement given December 3rd, 2002. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.
Statement begins.
ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)
My father was a murderer. There’s no way I can reasonably deny it at this point; the evidence provided by the police was overwhelming, and I saw his shed myself. I’m not here to try and clear his name. There wouldn’t be much point, anyway, as I’m sure you know he died in prison last year. Seven years isn’t much to have served out of a life sentence, but I doubt it was the early parole he’d have hoped for.
Sorry, maybe that wasn’t in the best taste. Still, his passing is why I feel like I can tell this story; something I’ve never really felt free to do before now. I always expected him to talk about it during the media frenzy that surrounded his trial, but for whatever reason, he kept quiet. I think I understand a bit more now why he never spoke about it, preferring people draw their own conclusions, but at the time, I couldn’t fathom why he just sat there silently, letting others talk for him.
I’d like to tell someone now, though, and I’ve only recently finished my court-appointed counselling sessions, so I’d rather not tell the tabloids and have ‘MY FATHER KILLED TO FUEL CULT MAGIC, SAYS DAUGHTER OF MONSTER’ splashed over page 7 of the weekend edition. So that leaves you guys. Respectable is hardly the word I’d use, but it’s better than nothing.
So yes, my father killed at least 40 people over the course of the five years prior to his arrest in 1995. I won’t recount the lurid details - if you’re interested you can look up Robert Montauk in the newspaper archive of any library. There’ll be plenty there: the papers clearly didn’t care much about the American bombing, because in April of that year they seemed to be talking about nothing but my father. There are also a couple of books on him, none of which I can really recommend, but I guess Ray Cowan’s No Bodies in the Shed is the closest to what I’d consider accurate, although it does imply that I was an accomplice, despite the fact that I was twelve years old at the time.
Honestly, I discovered most of the details from the newspapers and the court, just like everyone else. My father spent my formative years killing dozens of people and I had no idea. But the more I think back over my childhood, the more sure I am that there was something else going on. I don’t have any theories as to what any of this means, but I just need to get it down on paper somewhere. And this seems as good a place as any.
I’ve always lived in the same house on York Road in Dartford. Even now, after all that’s happened, and all I know about what went on there, I can’t bring myself to leave. As far as I know, the shed came with the house; it always sat in the garden: old, wooden and silent. I don’t recall it being used until after the night my mother disappeared. That’s when everything started to get strange.
My memory of early childhood is patchy - mostly isolated images and impressions - but I remember the night she vanished like it was yesterday. I was seven years old, and had been to the cinema that evening for the very first time in my life. We had been to see The Witches at what was back then the ABC, down on Shaftesbury Avenue. I had seen films before, of course, on our tiny living room television, but to see a movie on the big screen was awe-inspiring. The film itself was terrifying, though, and even now I’d say it’s far scarier than any “child’s film” has a right to be. I remember I spent a lot of it close to tears, but had been so proud of the fact that I hadn’t cried at all. When we got home, I lay awake for a long time. That scene where Luke is transformed into a mouse kept playing in my mind, and for some reason, it left me too afraid to go to sleep.
It was then that I heard a thump from downstairs, like something heavy falling over. I didn’t have a clock in my room, so I had no idea what the time was, but I recall looking out of the window and the world was dark and utterly silent. The thump came again, and I decided to go downstairs and see what it was.
The landing was almost pitch black, and I tried to be as quiet as possible so nobody would know I was there. The fourth stair down from the top of the staircase always creaked, and still does in fact, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard it creak louder than it did that night as I crept down them so slowly. The lights downstairs were all turned off, except for the kitchen light, which I could see from the bottom of the stairway.
I walked into the kitchen to find it empty. The back door stood open, and a cool breeze blew through it that made me shiver in my pyjamas. I saw something shiny laying on the table. Reaching up, I found my mother’s pendant. The design had always struck me as beautiful: it was silver, an abstract shape of a hand with a symbol on it that I believe was meant to represent a closed eye. I had never seen her take it off. In my child’s mind, I assumed that she had just left it on the table, an accident, and that the open door meant nothing. I went back upstairs, necklace clutched firmly in my hand, to return it to her. She wasn’t in bed, of course. The space next to where my father lay fast asleep was empty.
I gently touched my sleeping father’s shoulder, and he awoke slowly. I asked him where mum was, and he started to say something when he saw the silver chain clutched in my hands. He quickly got out of bed and started to get dressed. As he pulled on a shirt, he asked me where I had found it, and I told him, on the kitchen table. Following me downstairs, his gaze was immediately locked on the open door, and he paused. Instead of going outside, he walked over to the kitchen sink and turned on one of the taps. Immediately there began to flow a dark, dirty-looking liquid and the sick, salty smell of brackish water hit my nose, though at the time I didn’t understand that’s what it was.
The light in the kitchen blew out at that moment and the room got very dark. My father told me everything was fine, that I should go back to bed. His hands shook slightly as he took the pendant from me, and I didn’t believe him, but I did what I was told anyway. I don’t know how long I lay there, waiting for my father to return that night, but I know it was getting light outside when I finally fell asleep.
Eventually I woke up. The house was quiet and empty. I had missed the start of school by hours, but that was fine, because I didn’t want to leave the house. I just sat in the living room, silent and still.
It was almost evening again by the time my father actually returned. His face was pale and he barely looked at me, just walked straight to the cupboard and poured himself a glass of scotch. He sat next to me, drained the glass, and told me that my mother was gone. I didn’t understand. Still don’t, really. But he said it with such finality that I started to cry, and I didn’t stop for a very long time.
My father was a policeman, as I’m sure you’ve read, so as a child I just assumed that the police had looked for my mother and failed to find her. It wasn’t until much later that I discovered they’d never even had a missing persons report filed on her. As far as I know, I never had any living grandparents, and apparently no-one noticed she was gone - which was strange, as I have vague memories of her having friends over a lot before she vanished. Everyone assumes she was one of my father’s first victims, but there was never enough evidence to add it to the official tally. It doesn’t really matter.
For what it’s worth, I don’t think he did it. I won’t deny it makes sense from the outside, but I remember how devastated he was when she disappeared. He started drinking a lot. I think he did try to look after me as best he could, but most nights he just ended up passed out in his chair.
That was also when he started spending a lot of time in the shed. I’d never really paid it much attention before. As far as I was concerned, the sturdy wooden structure was just the home of spiders’ nests and the rusted garden tools my parents would use once a year to attack the overgrown wilderness that was our back garden. But soon after my mother’s disappearance, a sturdy new padlock was placed on the door, and my father spent a lot of time inside.
He told me he was woodworking, and sometimes I’d hear the sounds of power tools from inside, and he’d present me with some small wooden token he had made, but mostly there was silence. It should probably have bothered me more than it did, the hours he spent in there, and that odd smell I sometimes noticed, like tinned meat. But I never really paid it much attention, and I had my own grief to deal with.
He was gone most nights as well. Often, I would wake up from one of my nightmares to find the house silent and empty. I would look for him and he would be gone. I never despaired at this, for some reason, not like I had when my mother vanished. I knew he would return eventually, when he was finished with what I had decided must be ‘police business’. Sometimes I’d lie awake until he returned.
Once, as I lay awake, I heard him come into my room. I pretended to be asleep. I don’t know why, but I thought I’d be in trouble if he found out I was awake. He walked over to me and gently stroked my face. His hands smelled strange. Back then I didn’t know the scent of blood, and mixed with that faint, saline smell of brackish water. He whispered to me then, when he thought I was asleep, promised to protect me, to make sure that “it wouldn’t get me too”.
There was a strangled sound to his words; I think he might have been crying. As he left, I opened my eyes just enough to see him. He stood by the door, his face in his hands, wearing light grey overalls that were stained with a thick, black substance. I often wish I’d asked him about that night. I wonder, if he’d known I was awake, if I had asked him in that moment of weakness… Well, it’s far too late for that now.
Over the next couple of years, I noticed that my father seemed to be injured quite a lot, and there was rarely a time when he didn’t have some sort of plaster, bandage or bruise visible. I’d also occasionally find small bloodspots or smears on the floors or tables, especially in the hall. I got very good at cleaning them, and it never occurred to me to pay much attention to where they came from - I just assumed the blood was my father’s.
He started staying home during the day, and told me he’d been permanently assigned to the night shift. I believed him, of course, and it was only after his arrest that I discovered that had been the point he’d resigned his job on the police force. I don’t know where the money came from after that, but we always seemed to have enough.
Knowing what I know now, it sounds awful to say, but those were some of the happiest years of my childhood. I’d lost my mother, but my father doted on me, and together it seemed like we would get past our pain. I know I’ve made him sound like an alcoholic recluse who lived in the shed, but those were generally nocturnal activities for him. During the day was time he spent with me.
There was only one time I recall him going into the shed during the day. This was a couple of years after my mother’s disappearance, and I must have been about ten. The phone in the kitchen started ringing, and my father was upstairs. I had recently received permission from my father to answer the phone, so I was excited to take up my new responsibility. I picked up the handset and said my memorised phone script into the receiver: “Hello, Montauk residence!”
A man’s voice asked to speak with my father. It was a breathy voice, like that of an old man, and at the time I decided he had a German accent, though, when I was young, a lot of different nationalities and accents were lumped together in my mind under the label “German”. “What is this regarding?” I asked, as I had a whole phone conversation memorised and wanted to use as much of it as possible. The man sounded surprised at this and said hesitantly that he was from my father’s work. I asked him if he was from the Police and after a pause, he said “Yes”. He asked me to tell my father that it was Detective Rayner on the line, with a new case for him.
At this point my father had come down to the kitchen to see who was calling. I told him, and he visibly paled. He took the handset from me and placed it to his ear, not speaking but listening very intently. After a moment, he told me to go up to my room, as this was a “grown-up” conversation. I turned to leave, but as I was heading up the stairs, the light bulb in the landing blew.
The bulbs in our house broke often - my father said we had faulty wiring - so even at that age, I was quite adept at changing them. So I turned around and headed back downstairs to fetch a new bulb. As I approached the cabinet where we kept them, I heard my father’s voice from the kitchen. He was still on the phone and he sounded angry. I heard him say, “No, not already. Do it yourself.” Then he went very quiet and listened, before finally he said okay, that he’d do it as soon as possible. He put down the phone, then went over to the cupboard and poured himself a drink. He spent the rest of the day in the shed.
The one question they kept asking me over and over during the investigation into my father was whether I knew where the rest of the bodies were. I told them the truth, that I had no idea. They claimed they wanted to confirm the identities of the victims, which they couldn’t easily do with what was left.
I didn’t know where the bodies were, but I also didn’t tell them of the other way they might have identified the victims: my father’s photographs. I didn’t say anything, because I had no idea where he kept them, and I thought it would only make things worse if they couldn’t find them, but, yes, my father took photographs.
During those five years, I had gradually started to notice more and more canisters of photograph film left around the house. This puzzled me since, though my dad and I did sometimes go on short holidays, we never took a lot of pictures. Asking him about it, my father told me he had been trying to learn photography, but didn’t trust developers not to ruin his films, as he’d apparently had problems before.
I suggested he make himself a darkroom for developing them himself. I’d seen one in Ghostbusters 2 on TV the previous Christmas, and loved the idea of having a room like that. His face lit up, and he said he’d convert the guest bedroom. He then warned me that once it was done, I could never go in there without his supervision - there would be lots of dangerous chemicals. I didn’t care; I was just so glad that an idea of mine had made my father so happy.
That summer, my father converted the guest bedroom into a darkroom for developing photographs. Like the shed, it was locked almost all the time, but occasionally my father would take me inside and we’d develop photographs of cars or trees, or whatever else a ten- or eleven-year-old with a camera takes pictures of. Mostly, though, my father worked in there alone, and kept the door locked while he did. He seemed almost happy those last couple of years.
I didn’t have an unsupervised look inside until a few weeks before my father was caught. It was a Saturday evening in late autumn, and my father was out of the house. I spent the day watching TV and reading, but as it started to get dark, I found myself bored and alone. Passing by the door to what was now the darkroom, I noticed that the key was still in the lock.
I sometimes think back to that day, and wonder if my father left it deliberately. He’d been so careful for so many years, and then he just forgot? I knew about the dangers, but something inside me couldn’t resist going in.
There were no photos stored there. To this day, I don’t know where my father kept his developed pictures. But there were about a dozen images hung out to dry. They’re still vivid in my mind - black and white and washed in the deep red of the darkroom. Each photo was of a person’s face, close up and expressionless, their eyes were dull and glassy.
I had never seen corpses before, so didn’t really understand what I was looking at. On each face were thick black lines that formed these symbols that I didn’t recognise, but they were clearly drawn on the faces themselves, not just on the photographs. I don’t remember the symbols in any great detail, I’m afraid, just the faces that they were drawn onto, though they weren’t people I recognised. Nor did they match any of the photos the police showed me later.
I never went back in the darkroom after I closed and locked the door behind me that day. I spent the next weeks wondering if I should tell my father what I had seen. I didn’t know what I had seen - not really - but it felt like a bad secret, and I didn’t know what to do.
Finally, I decided to tell him. He was drinking on the sofa at the time, and he turned off the television as soon as I mentioned going into the darkroom. He didn’t say a word as I told him what I’d seen, just looked at me with an expression on his face I’d never seen before. When I was finished, he stood up and walked towards me, before taking me in his arms and giving me the last and longest hug I would ever get from him. He asked me not to hate him, and told me it would soon be over, then turned to go. I had no idea what he was talking about, but when I asked, he just said that I needed to stay in my room until he got back. Then he left.
I did what I was told. I went up to my room and lay in bed, trying to sleep. The air was heavy somehow, and in the end I spent the night staring out of the window at the street below. I was waiting for something, though I didn’t know what.
I remember it was 2:47 in the morning that it started. I finally had an alarm clock, and the image of it is still clear in my memory. I was thirsty, and went downstairs to get a glass of water. I turned on the tap, but what flowed out was a thick stream of muddy brown, brackish water. It smelled terrible, and I froze as I remembered the last time that had happened. My father still wasn’t home, and I went into the living room to watch desperately out of the window, looking down the street for his return. I was terrified.
As I stared down the road, I was struck by how small the puddles of light were from the streetlamps made, stretching far into the distance. But not as far as they should’ve gone. There were fewer lights than there should be, I was sure of it. Then I saw the light at the end of the road blink off. There was no moon out that night, and all the houses were quiet; when the streetlights stopped, there was nothing but black. The next closest streetlight failed. Then the next. And the next. A slow, rolling blanket of darkness, making its unhurried way towards me. The few lights still on in the houses along the road also disappeared as the tide approached. I just sat there, unable to look away. Finally, it reached our house, and all at once the lights were gone and the darkness was inside.
I heard a knock on the front door. Firm, unhurried and insistent. Silence. I did not move. The knocking came again, harder this time, and I heard the door rattle on its hinges. As it got louder it began to sound less and less like a person knocking and more like… wet meat being slammed into the sturdy wood of the front door.
I turned and ran towards the phone. Picking it up, I heard a dial tone, and would have cried with relief if I wasn’t already crying with fear. I dialled the police, and as soon as they picked up I started to babble about what was happening. The lady on the other end was patient with me, and kept on gently insisting I give her the address until finally I was composed enough. Almost as soon as I had told her where I was, I heard the door begin to splinter. I dropped the phone and ran towards the back of the house. As I did so, I heard the front door burst behind me and I heard a… growl - it was rumbling, deep and breathy like a wild animal, but had a strange tone to it that I’ve never been able to place. No matter where I turned, it sounded like it came out of the darkness right behind me. I didn’t have time to think about it as I ran into the back garden, and into a light that I did not expect. There in front of me was the shed. It glowed, a dull, pulsing blue from every crack and seam. I didn’t stop, though, as I heard again that growl behind me, and I ran towards it and pulled at the door.
The shed was not locked that night, and to this day I don’t know if I regret that fact. The first thing I saw when I opened that door was my father, bathed in the pale blue light. I couldn’t see any source for the glow, but it was so bright. He was knelt in the centre of an ornate chalk pattern scrawled on the rough wood of the floor. In front of him lay a man I didn’t know, but he was clearly dead - his chest had been cut open, and still gaped and bled feebly. In one hand my father held a wicked-looking knife, and in the other, he held the man’s heart.
My father was chanting, and as the song rose and fell, the heart in his hand beat to its rhythm, and the blue light brightened and dimmed in time. I looked at the walls, and noticed that they were covered in shelves, each of which contained glass jars, full of what I would later learn was formaldehyde containing a single heart - which also beat in time with the one that dripped in my father’s hand. It was an odd thing to notice at the time, but I remember that the dead man wore the same pendant as my mother - a silver hand with a closed eye design.
I don’t know how long I stood there staring. It might have been hours or it might have been only a moment or two. But then I heard that growl behind me and sensed a presence so close that I could feel the darkness on my back. Before I could react or move or scream, my father’s chant came to a crescendo and he plunged the dagger into the beating heart. All at once, the presence vanished, and the blue glow died. I could no longer hear the beating of the hearts. In the silence, I realised I could hear police sirens in the distance. I heard my dad tell me he was sorry, and then he started to run.
You know the rest. Manhunt, trial, prison, death. They say there were 40 hearts kept in that shed, not including his last victim, but of course the police didn’t arrive until all that was left of it was a grisly trophy cabinet. Whatever I had seen my father doing in there, its effects had long since vanished. I don’t know why my father did what he did, and I doubt I ever will, but the more I go over these events in my head, the more sure I am that he had his reasons.
ARCHIVIST
Statement ends.
There’s not much more to be added here. The police reports on Robert Montauk are predictably thorough, and there are few details to be added. The vast majority of research into this case has already been done by the serial killer enthusiast community which, though weird and deeply unsettling, does often prove to be surprisingly useful in high-publicity cases like this.
In addition to the body of one Christopher Lorne, 40 preserved hearts were recovered from Robert Montauk’s shed. They were arranged on the walls on individual shelves forming patterns of eleven hearts on each inner wall and seven on the wall with the door. Photos of the patterns match up to the various formulae of sacred geometry but don’t appear to correspond exactly with any specific school. Of possible significance also is that fact that the rest of the bodies were never found.
The symbol on the two pendants is that of the Peoples’ Church of the Divine Host, a small cult that grew around the defrocked Pentecostal minister Maxwell Rayner in London during the late eighties and early nineties. I knew I recognised the name from Statement 1106922 though, currently, it just looks like a coincidence.
Christopher Lorne was a member of the church, and his family hadn’t heard from him in the six years prior to his murder. Mr. Rayner himself disappeared from public view sometime in 1994, and the group fragmented shortly afterwards. The police made many attempts to follow up on this lead in the Montauk case, but were never able to locate any members willing to make statements.
The house on York Road is still inhabited, though the current owners pulled down the shed over a decade ago and replaced it with a patio.
Robert Montauk died in Wakefield Prison on November 1st 2002. He was stabbed forty-seven times and bled out before anyone found him. After reading this statement, three points of interest occur: no culprit or weapon was ever found connected to the killing; he was apparently alone in his cell at the time, which was supposed to be locked; and at the time of his death the light bulb in his cell was found to have blown out, leaving him in darkness.
Recording ends.
thank u ^_^♡
You are welcome! 😊
Thank you so much for the transcript!
Ah, The Magnus Archives! A perfect balance of suspense, horror, greatly placed ambience and individual yet over arching stories
in the "Thrown away" story, a heart carved out of metal was found, and also in this story there's hearts in jars.
Eyes and Patterns are recurring symbols and also Rayner seems to keep popping up (Rayner popped up as far as The Piper Story), I expect this Rayner person is pretty important and may play a larger role.
Anyways, my theory for this story was this darkness thing that growled was the same thing that took the mother away and the father took it upon himself to prevent the same thing from happening to his child so he was sacrificing many people to appease this 'Darkness' thing. The lengths a Father goes to protect his child...
I find it hilarious when I'm listening to one of these and all of a sudden I'm watching an ad about shampoo
I forget things very easily so I know from other coments that the stories are connected but I keep forgetting the details that connect and it's driving me crazy
These videos deserve WAAAY more views, it's just so good!!
I agree entirely. These chilling tales of wander deserve more recognition
To be fair, I listened to these the first time on stitcher. And most people likely listened on podcast apps as well.
Don’t worry, it’s very popular on Spotify and prob other podcast apps
WHY DO I IMAGINE THE DAD AS THE ONE FROM CLOUDY WITH A CHANCE OF MEATBALLS???
"I'm sorry skipper"
OH HEY THE DAD SHARES A NAME WITH ONE OF THE IMPORTANT CHARACTERS IN THE SCP FOUNDATION
not sure if that’s intentional but if so that’s a cool reference!!!!
Foundation and Archives crossover when?
There's also a reference to a Magnus Archives character in an SCP article. SCP-4716.
Realized that as well! Dr. Robert Montauk from Tufto's Proposal and the Scarlet King SCP's!
@@laurinscheyrer1122 "just a bedtime story"
MAG and SCP foundation being in the same universe would be a world I don't want to be in 🙂
Spoiler for around Season 3 onward
Robert Montauk was obviously a cultist of The Dark, but he and his wife wanted out, causing Rayner to send his attack monster to kill the family. Montauk counteracted this by aligning with The Hunt by hunting down the cultists and using their photos and remains to enact a ritual that keeps the monster at bay. Is the ritual connected to The Eye somehow? Perhaps having photographs of The Dark cultists enables him to channel The Eye, repelling the monster?
Damn, this one's good. What if the cult where the mother was tried to summon the creature but the ritual went wrong and the only way to stop it was to kill all those who where present during said ritual?
Churches yo, they do some weird shit.
What about the bottles of hearts arranged in a sacred geometry pattern?
God I’m completely taken by this series.
I feel like I should be taking notes. Not in a negative sense but because I want to know. I want to catch the leads, the oddities, before they’re clear.
So many names. So many little strange points.
I am completely in love. Very surprised this isn’t more popular
hey! don't feel too overwhelmed, it's written in a way that if you notice some reoccurring things when they get explained you'll be like ohhhh yk? I did my first listen without taking notes but I had no problem following the story and figuring out stuff in previous eps after having context. hope you enjoy it till the end!
same, I think it's going to be my new obsession. I hope the community around this isn't dead since it apparently ended 2 years ago, but it's good to see some other people are new like me
@@fauxclaws hi from 2023 ish !!
@@cactusc9519 haha hi, it's a pleasant surprise when people respond to my comments.
same, the other comments are making me feel as if i'm not doing enough lol
My favourite thing is coming back to this series and rereading all the first time comments, Oh I was one of you once
Right lmfao
Every episode Jon gets more traumatized hes slowly going brain dead
you don’t know how right you are
@@christa.mp4 I am terrified by this statement :)
@@tenacityxl Jon is also terrified by a statement. : )
/ joking
* offers hugz to all of them tbh *
So, no ones gonna talk about the fact the book she mentioned in the beginning frames her as her father’s 12 year old accomplice?
Amazing read. I just recently found out about the channel and I can't stop listening. These stories have just enough information about the events to draw interest, and leave just as much to the unknown. Keeping that fear of the unknown, dripping off every story. Keep up the great work, I'll be listening!!
It's extremly interesting to me - and I didn't see anyone else mention this - is that was also a Dr. ROBERT MONTAUK working for the SCP-Foundation, specifically on SCP-001 "The Scarlet King". This is a completely different universe. But interesting still...
What kind of creeps me out rn is that I could picture the pendant so well, because I've seen it before. Several times. Like, I very clearly remember it the way you described it, a silver, downturned, flat hand with a simplified closed eye on it, ad a pendant. At first that didn't surprise me since I thought, 'ah, yes, I remember, it's a pretty common pendant, isn't it?', but when I look it up I find nothing.
Maybe my mind was just playing tricks on me and just combined a few similar symbols/pendants/... I've seen before, but there was such a familiarity when I pictured your pendant ...
Your thinking of a witches pendent they are often depicted the way he is describing this pendent
i beleive its called a chamsa\hamsa try looking that up
I pictured the one in gravity falls to be honest lol
Notable recurring motifs: Hands, Eyes, Geometry, Hearts, Darkness, Paranoia/Anticipation/Intuition, water/rain/storms? etc...
I wondered how Jon (The character not the actor) handled reading these stories and not got a bit traumatized at all. I remember one of the stories after he finished he just called it "concerning" when it whould clearly would've made me stay awake all night.
So I started watching these last night, and I find it interesting that Reiner keeps popping up, definitely going to keep an ear open for that name. Seems like quite an interesting series
Where? I keep looking through the comments and people are saying the name has popped up a lot but so far I've only seen it here and a comment saying it was the the episode about the spirit of war. No spoilers past episode 9
Okay I'm new here and i made a connection myself: that no weapon was found when the father died in prison reminds me of lat episode when the father apparently died of suicide but no weapon was found either
Woah, wait, you're right! I'm new here too, just started listening yesterday.
Also the weird geometric patterns. The father from the previous episode was obsessed with it and the father from this episode arranged the jars in some geometric patterns.
Overlay Sarcastic Productions brought me here. The promise of horror stories in a podcast format + the payoff of attention got me interested.
Love it so far. I'm ready to grab my flashlight and open that creaking door to the dark basement and see where the shine of my flashlight leads me Oo
It made me SO happy when OSP shouted out TMA. If you've finished it, what do you think? 👀
SPOILERS
So, coming here after finishing the series... the whole *pause* and "yes, this is Detective Rayner" is horrifying. Earlier, even after learning about the Fears and the Divine Church, I'd assumed the Church had killed the mother, the Dark was just hunting them from their connection, and killing those people warded it off. Now, though...
I think Rayner was straight-up threatening Montauk into killing people of his choice ~~potentially even enemies of the Church?~~ and sent the Beast when he caught on to what Montauk was doing
@@emgomez5863 did you finish the series? I mentioned this is full of spoilers
@@aubarloweno I haven’t finished it but I am ok with spoilers. Also who’s rayner?
I’ve listened to 9 episodes in one day and I’m completely obsessed with this but the only thing I’m worried about is that I don’t think that I’ll have caught up by the time the final episodes air :( still this is an amazing podcast though and better late than never
ohhh this is so bittersweet
First time listener theory: the dad is getting rid of evil mimics as a part of a cult to keep his daughter safe since the mom was a part of the cult and they wanted the daughter too
The sound of the heart thumping in my ears made me think I was so scared I could hear my own until I paused and felt so much relief
Listening to the whole series again, nice picking up on the things I missed the first time. Thank you for putting this on youtube!
from 26:15 to around 26:41, you can hear a beating heart. i never realized before because i never listened to the podcast with headphones on but that is so cool
I'm relistening to The Magnus Archives for this years spooky month. All as great as I remember them, including this one. But, for some reason, that heartbeat sound effects REALLY got to me this time 😨
Same! I binged the series until around 150 and then I had fully caught up and listened to it episodically from then on, so I really wanna be able to binge it back to front without the pauses in between the later eps
Re-listening to all of this... this one is still rather saddening... very much so... x
This statements mentions Raynor again- the previous mention was in The Piper episode 7... In ep 7 the statement was made in 1922, amd the archavist makes a remark about how Gertrude put it in the 2000s box... THIS STATEMENT WAS MADE IN 2002, AND MENTIONS RAYNOR! Gertrude connected this, and i bet the cases were right next to eachother. There was method to Gertrudes madness for sure
When they hugged it was so sad to me
i was listening to this while i was about to sleep and my sister kept asking me "are you ok"
I think this is my favorite one so far
I keep thinking that with every new episode I listen to haha
Yep, the steady anticipation of the reveal of what the hell is in the shed and the strange details being told throughout make this a great episode for me.
What's weird to me is that it says here that Robert Montauk dies on November 1st, 2002, and that Julia Montauk gives her statement on December 3rd, 2002, but she says that he had been killed "last year". Was that a mistake? Did she mean last month? Or was the date of her statement or Robert's death a year off?
Or just bad filing?
I expected our archivist to make a judgemental crack or snide remark about the recording- and was surprised he did neither. It seems he does have his moments - and to make light of Julia would be cruel ,to say the least.
These would make for fantastic Call of Cthulhu investigations.
Haven’t started watching this yet but I just know it’s going to be good. Nothing’s scarier than daddy issues
You're not wrong,
but what about having daddy issues AND mommy issues at the same time?
I got unnerved when I heard a car alarm go off around the same time the Darkness came for Julia. It indirectly made the story creepier.
What I love about these stories is that the prose is never too long or too maddeningly brief. It doesn't spoil us with any exposition, but leaves us enough breadcrumbs so we can connect the dots- or come to our own conclusions...and our own imaginations always conjure up far worse fates than the real thing.
I have three theories as to what happened here:
1) Julia's mother was taken by a cult. Julia was selected to be the next victim unless her father complied with the cult to do their dark bidding- in which they would invoke the Darkness.
2) The Darkness took her mother. The only way the father could keep it at bay was by joining a secret organization- and human sacrifice.
3) This one is a mix of the first two. The mother was taken by cultists- and the father went on a revenge killing spree of sorts, sacrificing the cultists who murdered his wife, to the Darkness.
One can only that with her father's death, that the Darkness is sated (for now).
We can only hope Julia can continue to live as peacefully as one can.
I might have this wrong but the hand pendant is likely a hamsa hand, which is used for protection. Not sure what the closed eye means.
spoilers!
soo the closed eye is the symbol of the Dark entity, but i'm not sure about the hand
This is my second time listening to the series and I find it assuming all of the people who are listening for the first time, speculating about this episode unaware of how important robert/juila montorqe and rainer are later on in the story, especially seasons 4 & 5
A heart starts beating at 25:37
it's summer I'm binging as many of these as I can in one day
hoping to get through all of season 1
this one hits hard
Me *linking the brackish water from the sink and the blood*
Did he put the bodies in the GaRbAgE dIsPoSaL!?
OH FUCK I DIDNT THINK OF THAT.
I mean that doesn't really explain why the water was like that when the mom was gone but that would explain why the bodies were never found.
The UK usually doesn't have sink garbage disposals... My dad to this day uses a compost bin...
We don’t have sink garbage disposals here in the UK :)) so I don’t think so !
Another good episode! Can't wait to see how it all connects.
First time listener after a friend kept insisting I would love it. I do. Key things that poped out this episode on top of the obvious ones already written:
1. Rayner/Lightner-is there a reason for similar sounding names?
2. Was 47 the number of kills he did? Or just a random number?
3. The evil eye/hamsa is to ward off evil- is the closed eye subverting this to show being blind to evil or embracing it?
Dude this was the scariest one so far
You don't know how scary it was when close to midway in I got an Old Spice ad
I listened to the whole series in a week and now I'm listening from the start again and I cannot get over how well this story is put together. Amazing work, guys ❤️
i think the lightbulbs going out is an important detail and the streetlamps going dim and turning off as well
i just started listening today and this is by far my favorite episode. its definitely the most attention grabbing for me, i love it!
I'm on probably my fourth relisten and this is still one of my favorite episodes. I remember listening to it the first time--I was on a walk and I kept thinking "oh, this one's *different*"
There's just something about this one that's special. The show overall is amazing but this episode stands out, it has an incredible narrative and a lot of emotional weight.
This one was... Chilling.
25:37 had headphones on and god damn i though the heart beat was someone in my house lol
These episodes are wonderful, looking for forward to listening to all those still ahead of me^^
Thank you very very much for the work you put into these!
the animations brought me here and i thank those animators
Why don't these have more attention?
It really is a pity, they’re so good and deserve more love!
What are you talking about? The Magnus Archives has been this really big thing everyone knows about for quite a while. The low view numbers are probably due to the fact that it's posted on a bunch of other sites and it's a podcast; most people tend to listen to podcasts on places other than TH-cam.
i'm from around 2023, they're famous as shit! xD
in a small way, among podcats, ofc :)
I've been watching these so much that hearing the word Magnus sounds weird
Quarantine 2020 brought me here and I stayed. Out of all the weird fandoms I've picked up in this time, this is one of the better ones.
“Robert Montauk”. what a good name for a serial killer character. idk why but it just sounds like the name of a murderer
LOVE IT
As an SCP fan, hearing the name Montauk brings very bad vibes. This gon be good.
Same lol I was looking for an Scp fan. The funny thing is dr montauks name is actually Robert so I can’t stop thinking about the Scp foundation lmao
I'm so sad I have been a fan of SCP for so long yet never heard of this till 2 days ago :(
this series really loves its smells
immediate suspicious of the phone call: whoever called is the one that made the father do all of the killings
1:05 Statement (Dark) [John]
27:39 Post Statement
Montauk ? Like the Montauk in the SCP Fondation ?
Ooooh! I read the witches, I can't believe here is a reference!
Statement of Julia Montauk, regarding the actions and motivations of her father, the serial killer Robert Montauk. Original statement given December 3rd, 2002. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.
Statement begins.
ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)
My father was a murderer. There’s no way I can reasonably deny it at this point; the evidence provided by the police was overwhelming, and I saw his shed myself. I’m not here to try and clear his name. There wouldn’t be much point, anyway, as I’m sure you know he died in prison last year. Seven years isn’t much to have served out of a life sentence, but I doubt it was the early parole he’d have hoped for.
Sorry, maybe that wasn’t in the best taste. Still, his passing is why I feel like I can tell this story; something I’ve never really felt free to do before now. I always expected him to talk about it during the media frenzy that surrounded his trial, but for whatever reason, he kept quiet. I think I understand a bit more now why he never spoke about it, preferring people draw their own conclusions, but at the time, I couldn’t fathom why he just sat there silently, letting others talk for him.
I’d like to tell someone now, though, and I’ve only recently finished my court-appointed counselling sessions, so I’d rather not tell the tabloids and have ‘MY FATHER KILLED TO FUEL CULT MAGIC, SAYS DAUGHTER OF MONSTER’ splashed over page 7 of the weekend edition. So that leaves you guys. Respectable is hardly the word I’d use, but it’s better than nothing.
So yes, my father killed at least 40 people over the course of the five years prior to his arrest in 1995. I won’t recount the lurid details - if you’re interested you can look up Robert Montauk in the newspaper archive of any library. There’ll be plenty there: the papers clearly didn’t care much about the American bombing, because in April of that year they seemed to be talking about nothing but my father. There are also a couple of books on him, none of which I can really recommend, but I guess Ray Cowan’s No Bodies in the Shed is the closest to what I’d consider accurate, although it does imply that I was an accomplice, despite the fact that I was twelve years old at the time.
Honestly, I discovered most of the details from the newspapers and the court, just like everyone else. My father spent my formative years killing dozens of people and I had no idea. But the more I think back over my childhood, the more sure I am that there was something else going on. I don’t have any theories as to what any of this means, but I just need to get it down on paper somewhere. And this seems as good a place as any.
I’ve always lived in the same house on York Road in Dartford. Even now, after all that’s happened, and all I know about what went on there, I can’t bring myself to leave. As far as I know, the shed came with the house; it always sat in the garden: old, wooden and silent. I don’t recall it being used until after the night my mother disappeared. That’s when everything started to get strange. My memory of early childhood is patchy - mostly isolated images and impressions - but I remember the night she vanished like it was yesterday. I was seven years old, and had been to the cinema that evening for the very first time in my life. We had been to see The Witches at what was back then the ABC, down on Shaftesbury Avenue. I had seen films before, of course, on our tiny living room television, but to see a movie on the big screen was awe-inspiring. The film itself was terrifying, though, and even now I’d say it’s far scarier than any “child’s film” has a right to be. I remember I spent a lot of it close to tears, but had been so proud of the fact that I hadn’t cried at all. When we got home, I lay awake for a long time. That scene where Luke is transformed into a mouse kept playing in my mind, and for some reason, it left me too afraid to go to sleep.
It was then that I heard a thump from downstairs, like something heavy falling over. I didn’t have a clock in my room, so I had no idea what the time was, but I recall looking out of the window and the world was dark and utterly silent. The thump came again, and I decided to go downstairs and see what it was.
The landing was almost pitch black, and I tried to be as quiet as possible so nobody would know I was there. The fourth stair down from the top of the staircase always creaked, and still does in fact, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard it creak louder than it did that night as I crept down them so slowly. The lights downstairs were all turned off, except for the kitchen light, which I could see from the bottom of the stairway.
I walked into the kitchen to find it empty. The back door stood open, and a cool breeze blew through it that made me shiver in my pyjamas. I saw something shiny laying on the table. Reaching up, I found my mother’s pendant. The design had always struck me as beautiful: it was silver, an abstract shape of a hand with a symbol on it that I believe was meant to represent a closed eye. I had never seen her take it off. In my child’s mind, I assumed that she had just left it on the table, an accident, and that the open door meant nothing. I went back upstairs, necklace clutched firmly in my hand, to return it to her. She wasn’t in bed, of course. The space next to where my father lay fast asleep was empty.
I gently touched my sleeping father’s shoulder, and he awoke slowly. I asked him where mum was, and he started to say something when he saw the silver chain clutched in my hands. He quickly got out of bed and started to get dressed. As he pulled on a shirt, he asked me where I had found it, and I told him, on the kitchen table. Following me downstairs, his gaze was immediately locked on the open door, and he paused. Instead of going outside, he walked over to the kitchen sink and turned on one of the taps. Immediately there began to flow a dark, dirty-looking liquid and the sick, salty smell of brackish water hit my nose, though at the time I didn’t understand that’s what it was.
The light in the kitchen blew out at that moment and the room got very dark. My father told me everything was fine, that I should go back to bed. His hands shook slightly as he took the pendant from me, and I didn’t believe him, but I did what I was told anyway. I don’t know how long I lay there, waiting for my father to return that night, but I know it was getting light outside when I finally fell asleep.
Eventually I woke up. The house was quiet and empty. I had missed the start of school by hours, but that was fine, because I didn’t want to leave the house. I just sat in the living room, silent and still.
It was almost evening again by the time my father actually returned. His face was pale and he barely looked at me, just walked straight to the cupboard and poured himself a glass of scotch. He sat next to me, drained the glass, and told me that my mother was gone. I didn’t understand. Still don’t, really. But he said it with such finality that I started to cry, and I didn’t stop for a very long time.
My father was a policeman, as I’m sure you’ve read, so as a child I just assumed that the police had looked for my mother and failed to find her. It wasn’t until much later that I discovered they’d never even had a missing persons report filed on her. As far as I know, I never had any living grandparents, and apparently no-one noticed she was gone - which was strange, as I have vague memories of her having friends over a lot before she vanished. Everyone assumes she was one of my father’s first victims, but there was never enough evidence to add it to the official tally. It doesn’t really matter.
For what it’s worth, I don’t think he did it. I won’t deny it makes sense from the outside, but I remember how devastated he was when she disappeared. He started drinking a lot. I think he did try to look after me as best he could, but most nights he just ended up passed out in his chair.
That was also when he started spending a lot of time in the shed. I’d never really paid it much attention before. As far as I was concerned, the sturdy wooden structure was just the home of spiders’ nests and the rusted garden tools my parents would use once a year to attack the overgrown wilderness that was our back garden. But soon after my mother’s disappearance, a sturdy new padlock was placed on the door, and my father spent a lot of time inside.
He told me he was woodworking, and sometimes I’d hear the sounds of power tools from inside, and he’d present me with some small wooden token he had made, but mostly there was silence. It should probably have bothered me more than it did, the hours he spent in there, and that odd smell I sometimes noticed, like tinned meat. But I never really paid it much attention, and I had my own grief to deal with.
He was gone most nights as well. Often, I would wake up from one of my nightmares to find the house silent and empty. I would look for him and he would be gone. I never despaired at this, for some reason, not like I had when my mother vanished. I knew he would return eventually, when he was finished with what I had decided must be ‘police business’. Sometimes I’d lie awake until he returned.
Once, as I lay awake, I heard him come into my room. I pretended to be asleep. I don’t know why, but I thought I’d be in trouble if he found out I was awake. He walked over to me and gently stroked my face. His hands smelled strange. Back then I didn’t know the scent of blood, and mixed with that faint, saline smell of brackish water. He whispered to me then, when he thought I was asleep, promised to protect me, to make sure that “it wouldn’t get me too”.
There was a strangled sound to his words; I think he might have been crying. As he left, I opened my eyes just enough to see him. He stood by the door, his face in his hands, wearing light grey overalls that were stained with a thick, black substance. I often wish I’d asked him about that night. I wonder, if he’d known I was awake, if I had asked him in that moment of weakness… Well, it’s far too late for that now.
Over the next couple of years, I noticed that my father seemed to be injured quite a lot, and there was rarely a time when he didn’t have some sort of plaster, bandage or bruise visible. I’d also occasionally find small blood spots or smears on the floors or tables, especially in the hall. I got very good at cleaning them, and it never occurred to me to pay much attention to where they came from - I just assumed the blood was my father’s.He started staying home during the day, and told me he’d been permanently assigned to the night shift. I believed him, of course, and it was only after his arrest that I discovered that had been the point he’d resigned his job on the police force. I don’t know where the money came from after that, but we always seemed to have enough.Knowing what I know now, it sounds awful to say, but those were some of the happiest years of my childhood. I’d lost my mother, but my father doted on me, and together it seemed like we would get past our pain. I know I’ve made him sound like an alcoholic recluse who lived in the shed, but those were generally nocturnal activities for him. During the day was time he spent with me.
There was only one time I recall him going into the shed during the day. This was a couple of years after my mother’s disappearance, and I must have been about ten. The phone in the kitchen started ringing, and my father was upstairs. I had recently received permission from my father to answer the phone, so I was excited to take up my new responsibility. I picked up the handset and said my memorised phone script into the receiver: “Hello, Montauk residence!”
A man’s voice asked to speak with my father. It was a breathy voice, like that of an old man, and at the time I decided he had a German accent, though, when I was young, a lot of different nationalities and accents were lumped together in my mind under the label “German”. “What is this regarding?” I asked, as I had a whole phone conversation memorised and wanted to use as much of it as possible. The man sounded surprised at this and said hesitantly that he was from my father’s work. I asked him if he was from the Police and after a pause, he said “Yes”. He asked me to tell my father that it was Detective Rayner on the line, with a new case for him.
At this point my father had come down to the kitchen to see who was calling. I told him, and he visibly paled. He took the handset from me and placed it to his ear, not speaking but listening very intently. After a moment, he told me to go up to my room, as this was a “grown-up” conversation. I turned to leave, but as I was heading up the stairs, the light bulb in the landing blew.
The bulbs in our house broke often - my father said we had faulty wiring - so even at that age, I was quite adept at changing them. So I turned around and headed back downstairs to fetch a new bulb. As I approached the cabinet where we kept them, I heard my father’s voice from the kitchen. He was still on the phone and he sounded angry. I heard him say, “No, not already. Do it yourself.” Then he went very quiet and listened, before finally he said okay, that he’d do it as soon as possible. He put down the phone, then went over to the cupboard and poured himself a drink. He spent the rest of the day in the shed.
The one question they kept asking me over and over during the investigation into my father was whether I knew where the rest of the bodies were. I told them the truth, that I had no idea. They claimed they wanted to confirm the identities of the victims, which they couldn’t easily do with what was left.
I didn’t know where the bodies were, but I also didn’t tell them of the other way they might have identified the victims: my father’s photographs. I didn’t say anything, because I had no idea where he kept them, and I thought it would only make things worse if they couldn’t find them, but, yes, my father took photographs.
During those five years, I had gradually started to notice more and more canisters of photograph film left around the house. This puzzled me since, though my dad and I did sometimes go on short holidays, we never took a lot of pictures. Asking him about it, my father told me he had been trying to learn photography, but didn’t trust developers not to ruin his films, as he’d apparently had problems before.
I suggested he make himself a darkroom for developing them himself. I’d seen one in Ghostbusters 2 on TV the previous Christmas, and loved the idea of having a room like that. His face lit up, and he said he’d convert the guest bedroom. He then warned me that once it was done, I could never go in there without his supervision - there would be lots of dangerous chemicals. I didn’t care; I was just so glad that an idea of mine had made my father so happy.
That summer, my father converted the guest bedroom into a darkroom for developing photographs. Like the shed, it was locked almost all the time, but occasionally my father would take me inside and we’d develop photographs of cars or trees, or whatever else a ten- or eleven-year-old with a camera takes pictures of. Mostly, though, my father worked in there alone, and kept the door locked while he did. He seemed almost happy those last couple of years.
I didn’t have an unsupervised look inside until a few weeks before my father was caught. It was a Saturday evening in late autumn, and my father was out of the house. I spent the day watching TV and reading, but as it started to get dark, I found myself bored and alone. Passing by the door to what was now the darkroom, I noticed that the key was still in the lock.
I sometimes think back to that day, and wonder if my father left it deliberately. He’d been so careful for so many years, and then he just forgot? I knew about the dangers, but something inside me couldn’t resist going in.
There were no photos stored there. To this day, I don’t know where my father kept his developed pictures. But there were about a dozen images hung out to dry. They’re still vivid in my mind - black and white and washed in the deep red of the darkroom. Each photo was of a person’s face, close up and expressionless, their eyes were dull and glassy.
I had never seen corpses before, so didn’t really understand what I was looking at. On each face were thick black lines that formed these symbols that I didn’t recognise, but they were clearly drawn on the faces themselves, not just on the photographs. I don’t remember the symbols in any great detail, I’m afraid, just the faces that they were drawn onto, though they weren’t people I recognised. Nor did they match any of the photos the police showed me later.
I never went back in the darkroom after I closed and locked the door behind me that day. I spent the next weeks wondering if I should tell my father what I had seen. I didn’t know what I had seen - not really - but it felt like a bad secret, and I didn’t know what to do.
Finally, I decided to tell him. He was drinking on the sofa at the time, and he turned off the television as soon as I mentioned going into the darkroom. He didn’t say a word as I told him what I’d seen, just looked at me with an expression on his face I’d never seen before. When I was finished, he stood up and walked towards me, before taking me in his arms and giving me the last and longest hug I would ever get from him. He asked me not to hate him, and told me it would soon be over, then turned to go. I had no idea what he was talking about, but when I asked, he just said that I needed to stay in my room until he got back. Then he left.
I did what I was told. I went up to my room and lay in bed, trying to sleep. The air was heavy somehow, and in the end I spent the night staring out of the window at the street below. I was waiting for something, though I didn’t know what.
I remember it was 2:47 in the morning that it started. I finally had an alarm clock, and the image of it is still clear in my memory. I was thirsty, and went downstairs to get a glass of water. I turned on the tap, but what flowed out was a thick stream of muddy brown, brackish water. It smelled terrible, and I froze as I remembered the last time that had happened. My father still wasn’t home, and I went into the living room to watch desperately out of the window, looking down the street for his return. I was terrified.
As I stared down the road, I was struck by how small the puddles of light were from the streetlamps made, stretching far into the distance. But not as far as they should’ve gone. There were fewer lights than there should be, I was sure of it. Then I saw the light at the end of the road blink off. There was no moon out that night, and all the houses were quiet; when the streetlights stopped, there was nothing but black. The next closest streetlight failed. Then the next. And the next. A slow, rolling blanket of darkness, making its unhurried way towards me. The few lights still on in the houses along the road also disappeared as the tide approached. I just sat there, unable to look away. Finally, it reached our house, and all at once the lights were gone and the darkness was inside.I heard a knock on the front door. Firm, unhurried and insistent. Silence. I did not move. The knocking came again, harder this time, and I heard the door rattle on its hinges. As it got louder it began to sound less and less like a person knocking and more like… wet meat being slammed into the sturdy wood of the front door.
I turned and ran towards the phone. Picking it up, I heard a dial tone, and would have cried with relief if I wasn’t already crying with fear. I dialled the police, and as soon as they picked up I started to babble about what was happening. The lady on the other end was patient with me, and kept on gently insisting I give her the address until finally I was composed enough. Almost as soon as I had told her where I was, I heard the door begin to splinter. I dropped the phone and ran towards the back of the house. As I did so, I heard the front door burst behind me and I heard a… growl - it was rumbling, deep and breathy like a wild animal, but had a strange tone to it that I’ve never been able to place. No matter where I turned, it sounded like it came out of the darkness right behind me. I didn’t have time to think about it as I ran into the back garden, and into a light that I did not expect. There in front of me was the shed. It glowed, a dull, pulsing blue from every crack and seam. I didn’t stop, though, as I heard again that growl behind me, and I ran towards it and pulled at the door.
The shed was not locked that night, and to this day I don’t know if I regret that fact. The first thing I saw when I opened that door was my father, bathed in the pale blue light. I couldn’t see any source for the glow, but it was so bright. He was knelt in the centre of an ornate chalk pattern scrawled on the rough wood of the floor. In front of him lay a man I didn’t know, but he was clearly dead - his chest had been cut open, and still gaped and bled feebly. In one hand my father held a wicked-looking knife, and in the other, he held the man’s heart.
My father was chanting, and as the song rose and fell, the heart in his hand beat to its rhythm, and the blue light brightened and dimmed in time. I looked at the walls, and noticed that they were covered in shelves, each of which contained glass jars, full of what I would later learn was formaldehyde containing a single heart - which also beat in time with the one that dripped in my father’s hand. It was an odd thing to notice at the time, but I remember that the dead man wore the same pendant as my mother - a silver hand with a closed eye design.
I don’t know how long I stood there staring. It might have been hours or it might have been only a moment or two. But then I heard that growl behind me and sensed a presence so close that I could feel the darkness on my back. Before I could react or move or scream, my father’s chant came to a crescendo and he plunged the dagger into the beating heart. All at once, the presence vanished, and the blue glow died. I could no longer hear the beating of the hearts. In the silence, I realised I could hear police sirens in the distance. I heard my dad tell me he was sorry, and then he started to run.
You know the rest. Manhunt, trial, prison, death. They say there were 40 hearts kept in that shed, not including his last victim, but of course the police didn’t arrive until all that was left of it was a grisly trophy cabinet. Whatever I had seen my father doing in there, its effects had long since vanished. I don’t know why my father did what he did, and I doubt I ever will, but the more I go over these events in my head, the more sure I am that he had his reasons. Statement ends.
There’s not much more to be added here. The police reports on Robert Montauk are predictably thorough, and there are few details to be added. The vast majority of research into this case has already been done by the serial killer enthusiast community which, though weird and deeply unsettling, does often prove to be surprisingly useful in high-publicity cases like this.
In addition to the body of one Christopher Lorne, 40 preserved hearts were recovered from Robert Montauk’s shed. They were arranged on the walls on individual shelves forming patterns of eleven hearts on each inner wall and seven on the wall with the door. Photos of the patterns match up to the various formulae of sacred geometry but don’t appear to correspond exactly with any specific school. Of possible significance also is that fact that the rest of the bodies were never found.
The symbol on the two pendants is that of the Peoples’ Church of the Divine Host, a small cult that grew around the defrocked Pentecostal minister Maxwell Rayner in London during the late eighties and early nineties. I knew I recognised the name from Statement 1106922 though, currently, it just looks like a coincidence.
Christopher Lorne was a member of the church, and his family hadn’t heard from him in the six years prior to his murder. Mr. Rayner himself disappeared from public view sometime in 1994, and the group fragmented shortly afterwards. The police made many attempts to follow up on this lead in the Montauk case, but were never able to locate any members willing to make statements.
The house on York Road is still inhabited, though the current owners pulled down the shed over a decade ago and replaced it with a patio.
Robert Montauk died in Wakefield Prison on November 1st 2002. He was stabbed forty-seven times and bled out before anyone found him. After reading this statement, three points of interest occur: no culprit or weapon was ever found connected to the killing; he was apparently alone in his cell at the time, which was supposed to be locked; and at the time of his death the light bulb in his cell was found to have blown out, leaving him in darkness.
Recording ends.
Thank you, this was super helpful, reading along makes it easier for me to concentrate
holy shit i'm terrified this is great
These are so good
40 hearts, 7 years in prison before he was stabbed to death 47 times?
it was 2:47 in the morning when it started
I'm not crying over a dad serial killer trying to protect his daughter from a gruesome cult life you are
SPOLERS:
Ok so I’m on my third(?) watch. And I’m thinking about the connections between the entities. You get obvious groupings like:
-the dark and the buried (being trapped in darkness)
- the dark and the hunt (something you cannot see is chasing you)
-the dark and the vast (there is nowhere to hide and something is out there) (also wow the dark is a whore pairing up with everyone jeez)
-the stranger and the spiral (paranoia and madness)
-the flesh and the corruption (they’re besties)
Etc
But you also get entities that are natural enemies.
-the buried and the vast
- the dark and the desolation
-the end and the flesh
But interestingly, something most people don’t talk about is how The Eye, aka Jon, The Dark and The Buried are natural opponents. And The Buried and The Dark feature so heavily very early in the series. It’s almost like those two Entities are trying to get to Jon before he fully becomes The Archivist. Maybe im crazy.
I'll be leaving my light on tonight heh
the theme spirals and bones and heat seems to be recurring here, the coffin's pattern and supernatural warmth, the whole burnout episode, the guy that got impostered, and that was the missing piece of his table, wasn't it?
being able to listen to this without ads i could kill god
i don't know what is going on with eyes but it keeps repeating and I think it is nice for some reason, I like the eye symbolism. so, Julia's dad was a killer that I think scarfieced others to what that Thing is to help save her or them. Also did he kill 47 people? is that why he was stabbed 47 times?
the pendant with the eye... oofta
The first half of this really had some 'I hunt killers' vibes
i have a monkey brain... i can't remember names for the love of my life. but i hopes there a wiki out there that can help cuz my ass need it cuz from what i can gather there alot of easter egg and name drop here and i feel like im missing out.
Will there ever be subtitles added for these?
My dogs at 23:50ish decided it was best to start howling like someone was at the door or outside