“I have a bed. I don’t sleep there very often, but it’s there. it’s on the ground floor of my house. I don’t spend much time there anymore. I spend my time in the basement. I don’t remember when that started, it just did. I only leave the basement to do necessary things. keep up the image of having a life. get groceries. shower, sometimes. I’d rather not shower, but I have to keep up appearances. besides, I wouldn’t want the Attic to get me.
I like cooking. something about the gifts the dirt gives to me. I don’t know, really. I still don’t understand what I am. I just know whenever I look at food I think of all the ways it’s connected to dirt and how dirt is connected to me. I don’t like meat, though. it’s detached from that. most meat is. there are some that aren’t. not many. not enough. I don’t eat meat. I can’t eat meat. It won’t let me.
you’ll probably call me crazy for this, but I think I have powers. powers like the people you describe. powers like avatars. to affect the lives of others and shake them to their very core. if I focus I can make anyone go away. I can make the world close around us. I can make them squirm and fidget and need to go home early. they lie to get away from me. I never liked them anyway. they distance themselves from the dirt. they don’t accept our home.
I like to go hiking. I need to go hiking. I like graveyards, and I like the woods. I like when I can feel the soil in my toes. I like feeling stone and rock in my hands. sometimes I go caving. I’ve never had training for it, but I do it anyway. I have faith that the earth will lead me wherever I need to be. if I get stuck down there, at least I’ll be away from everything else that wants me. I’ll be safe in the earth. I’ll be home.
suffocating doesn’t scare me. not when it’s in dirt. dirt caresses you, it’s safe, it has no ill will. it’s just… dirt. that’s all it is and all it will ever be. the sky and the sea aren’t like that. you can suffocate in both, you know. suffocating is not just choking on dirt, suffocating is death from being unable to breathe. drowning is suffocation, and you can suffocate in the upper atmosphere. you can suffocate in a lot of places, actually. many realms have some form. none are as pure and loving as the dirt, they don’t even come close. none of them let you sleep as easy as in dirt, none are as welcoming.
I think I’m submitting to you because I’m scared. I don’t know if I am scared, though. I know I shouldn’t feel like this, that I never quite did love dirt as much before I started sleeping in the basement, that I’m not normal. I used to be scared of just how strange I am. I’m not anymore. I guess I just want information. answers. and maybe I want to be known. who knows. I know what I want, though. dirt. dirt and digging and burying. I’ll bury you, too, if you want. it’s more pleasant than you’d think.”
M.I.S. Notation: if you want more information, email one of us.
“During June of 2017 I, an American, was in and around the Chicago area. I was on a book tour selling my latest batch of poetry chatlets, when I encountered an odd man inside of one of the diners there.
My memory is not the best so I dont quite remember much about the podunk dinner, except for the fact that the coffee was oddly good compared to everything else. There in that dinner, sitting in a corner booth by himself with a view of both exits was an Indian man with greying brown hair. He had a skunk stripe down the left side of hair and circular glasses. I remember him in more detail than I remember the food I had ordered, because after talking with him, the food I ate, all seemed to taste of sawdust in my mouth.
He had these eyes... sharp as a hawks with crows feet in the corners, but they seemed unendingly weary, much like he was an old soul stuck in form that was not his. He was dressed like a little librarian; a white button up, under a plaid blue and black sweater vest ,whose cuffs were rolled up out of the way, and tan khakis. Of the skin that wasn’t covered there seemed to be little pockmark scars across his arms and neck. He would have been very cute, had it not been for the slightly glowing tattoo of a third eye above his forehead and the nearly melted scarred flesh of his hand that held his coffee cup.
Nobody seemed to pay him much attention. Nobody else seemed to notice his oddities, but he sat in that corner of the dinner, a mound of papers around him and too many coffee cups and empty sugar packets around him to count.
When he noticed me sitting three tables away, it was if a great looming sense of dread washed over me. It felt like it was not just his eyes staring into me. I tried to make myself look scarce, tried to shrink into the booth at my back and worm my way under the table, but he kept watching me a quizzical look in his eyes. A odd facial expression flashed across his face before he made his way over to my table as if a cat had just cornered a mouse.
And there he stood before me. And there I tried to sink deeper under the table, till in a soft gentle voice with a strong british accent he asked me, " You seem to have a story you want to tell. Why not indulge me?" And sat down across from me at the booth.
And I did tell him a story. One I have been trying to forget for years. I told him of my time in the Cult of Antiquis, of how as a young man, I, desiring love and acceptance and never getting it from my Born-again family, found a preacher woman in New Port, Ohio telling the good gosple of how you could be religious and trans and that god made you they way you are and that there is nothing wrong with you. And in that she was right... but not in what happened following that... not in what the cult was actually about...
But that tale is not one I wish to relive again. The man from that dinner already pried it out of me once. I don’t feel like reliving it again. I never did get his name... but when I finished my story, he thanked me, like my pain and trauma was something to be savoured and enjoyed. An eerie half smirk was on his face, when he bid me goodbye, got up from my booth, walked back over to his, collected his papers, left some money on the table and left the dinner. And I sat there for a few more hours not really eating the food in front of me and forgetting what I had to do the rest of the day.
Ive been having nightmares of that man and the story I told him since. Therapy and medication hasnt helped. I figured this would be a good source of closure.”
M.I.S. Notation: oh god another one. im so sorry you had the dire misfortune of coming in contact with the archivist. not much to say here. contact us if the nightmares get worse.
“I didn’t want to give this statement about That Night, but my friend said I should – because, saying things out loud is supposed to work through emotional trauma. And stuff.
My name is [REDACTED], and I used to be a bassist in The Hungry Murderpigs. I know, I know. Shit name. But we weren’t supposed to be a proper band.
We were just some office workers screwing around on our days off, letting off some steam in a punk band. weren’t very good – in fact, some days, we were downright bad – but we had a steady gig at one of the local bars who were too cheap to pay for proper music and we were asked to play for some small line-ups so… I think we were doing fine, kinda. It’s nice to feel young again sometimes.
Until Marty got this grand idea into his head that we should start playing metal songs. Because he started listening to these symphonic metal bands...
And it’s like… Okay, sure, symphonic metal is pretty great, I guess…
But it’s hard to pivot from one genre to another, and there was nothing symphonic… metal-ish… about The Hungry Murderpigs – our name does not fit that genre at all. Okay, anyways. Marty was all, “Look we can fucking do this guys!! Let’s just play ONE song in this genre for the next gig, okay??”
And when Marty gets all excited like a puppydog, it’s hard to say no to him.
He even found [REDACTED]. He’s got a real sharp tongue and he can be painfully sarcastic at times, but he’s very good with music. He’s a professional musician, unlike us. He plays at least six instruments – the keyboards, the violin, guitar, trumpet, drums… it goes on. And here’s the thing, he sounds good on those instruments. And he looks really suave while playing his keyboard, he looks like one of those fancy old time piano-playing men at smoky bars… if they were modern and… And I’m rambling. I do think he is very suave though, with his suit and slicked-back hair.
I sound like I’m a little in love with him, don’t I? I guess I am. Maybe. But anyways. Marty found him in a bar. [REDACTED] overheard him talking about The Hungry Murderpigs to a friend, and how we (read: he) was thinking about changing the band’s genre, and Alfred kind of dropped into the conversation. Even helped Marty out on this song he was writing, made it more. Symphonic metal-ish. And from then on, Alfred kind of became part of The Hungry Murderpigs.
Yeah, we played the song on That Night. It was called… My Frozen Tears Are Immortal. And it was essentially a break-up fuck-you song to Nessa, who was our drummer, who left the band after she broke up with Marty.
Come to think of it, that’s probably why Marty wanted to change the band’s genre.
That Night didn’t happen until we started playing My Frozen Tears Are Immortal.
I guess I knew things were going a little wrong the longer we played that song.
I, I. I can’t remember much of what happened downstage.
What bits I remember?
The smell of blood. Iron in the air. Fred used to make this shit joke about how girls will be throwing their panties at us someday, and I was really grossed out by that (yeast infections, hello?) – but I digress, someone threw their arm on to the stage. It was, like, floppy. Limbs look rather strange when they’re detached from a body. The couple eating each other’s faces in the front row. Marty being dragged off the stage, and a waiter smashing his head in with a bar chair to the beat of Fred’s drums. [REDACTED] laughing, as he takes us through the melody. Meat and blood. So much meat. I think I threw up, I remembered getting sick all down the front of my shirt and all over my guitar, but I kept playing. Couldn’t stop.
But. We played so well. I don’t think… I don’t think we have ever played this well before. Me and [REDACTED], we wound down the night together. Fred? Oh. He stopped playing halfway through. I think someone got to him.
Later, I woke up in the hospital. I’d lost the hearing in my right ear, and most of the hearing in my left. Yeah. Yeah. My ears are still bleeding. I know. I fucked my fingers up big time too. Doctors said that it was a miracle they could save my fingers.
How am I doing these days?
I’m alive. It’s nice to be alive. I quit my old job because I was taking too many days off work. Because I needed to practice the bass, you see. I couldn’t treat music like something I fucked around with on off-days anymore, after that night. I made something amazing That Night, you know? I was part of it.
I, I get angry sometimes. The music on the radio is terrible. All these top forty pop stars… They wouldn’t have gotten to where they were without mommy and daddy’s money, or sleeping their way to the top. Not like us. Not like me. I paid the price. [REDACTED] paid the price.
Oh. Yeah. I’m still in contact with him.
We’re playing together now. We’re still looking for a cellist and a flutist.
We have a show at McNairy’s tonight. You can come down, if you like.
Drinks are on me.”
M.I.S. Notation: safe to say your friend is an avatar. id say youre well on your way to becoming one yourself. i doubt you want to stop the process, considering who youre playing with.
“hello! I just wanted to report a possible avatar I saw the other day? I don't entirely know what you people are or do, or even what avatars are, but it sounds close enough to what I saw? it was this person, at least I think it was a person? anyway they were walking down the street and I just,,, kinda stared at them for a while? thought they were gay and you know how it is when you find another gay person.
anyway when I looked at them they started looking at me and then I noticed their eyes were much greener than they should be and they seemed to stare into my soul when they looked at me. they smiled wide and I swear to god I saw like,,, 15 other eyes all across their face. it was like their entire face split open into those bright green eyes it was horrifying,,,, and then I blinked and the person was gone??? was this an avatar or am I just going crazy??? do I need therapy????“
M.I.S. Notation: well isnt this a classic appearance of the eye? they love their glowing green eyes symbolism dont they. looks fairly normal, at least from what i can tell, and seems like the kinda freaky stuff an eye avatar would come up with. to the anon, report back if you experience the feeling of being watched, or see a few too many eyes in your dreams. thank you for your contribution to our lists.
“febuary 7th? every day on my way to my college campus i pass by a little park, it's usually pretty quiet but some mornings there'll be someone hanging around. I guess that shouldn't be weird in itself, but i've never actually seen their face. I mean, they'll be walking or jogging or doing god knows what, and then as soon as i turn to look at them they just stop. they don't turn around but i never see the front of them, but somehow i feel like they still know i'm watching.
this morning was extra creepy imo. i saw the same person and i know this sounds insane but i swear to god they were halfway in the grass. it was pretty early so it wasn't completely bright out yet, but i know that park is flat so it couldn't have been an optical illusion. any ideas?? please let me know if you think this could be an avatar or if i'm just seeing things now”
M.I.S. Notation: this one is interesting because it could be taken two ways; either this person is meltin into the ground because they aren’t actually a person (hence, the stranger) or they are the ground. either way this is probably an avatar? although they don’t seem too dangerous, at least not for now. if you see them again, send one of us an email and ill do some research into the situation.
"Today, I was simply on my way to class, as usual. I followed the normal route and was quickly stopped by someone. It was a man in his thirties perhaps fourties, with dark hair and sleepless eyes. He stared at me, intensely and for a second, his eyes flashed green? It could've been a reflection of a sign in his glasses, but when he asked me to tell me what I knew, I couldn't keep my words to myself, I just told him."
M.I.S. Notation: i was wondering when the archivist would show up. well known avatar position, one filled many times over the years thanks to jonah magnus. archivists seem a great deal more attached to their humanity than other avatars. hopefully it stays that way. we will keep them on our radar, and perhaps talk to the current head of the magnus institute about your experience.
Date of Report Submission: 2020/02/13
Possible Entity: The Vast
Original Text:
november plath reporting, for the first and hopefully the last time ever. i was at an outing with my good friend and fellow employee susanna ross. we had gone to a cat cafe and we were eating our food. i was looking around in search of a good cat to pet, when i suddenly had the feeling of my stomach plummeting. i figured, well thats not good or normal, and knowing my field of research i thought well maybe its an avatar that will ruin my. outing. with my good friend. i scanned all the people in the room, and there was one standing in the corner that gave me some crazy vertigo when i looked at them. unfortunately i didnt get a good look at them, because i was too busy having vertigo. i tapped suzie on the shoulder and gestured subtly to the corner where the person stood. judging by suzie clutching at her stomach and smiling shakily at me, she saw the person. we paid for our food and left.
M.I.S. Notation: Unfortunately, as you can probably tell, I was there and can back up November’s report entirely.
I don’t have much to add myself but at the very least: you know that particular feeling of vertigo you get out of the blue when you’re falling asleep? Looking at the person gave that same kind of vertigo, only stronger.
Considering this was in our town we may be able to keep an eye out in case this person appears again, though admittedly I kind of hope they don’t. :’)
“So like. One day, grandaunt’s boss was hashing out some sorta deal or something with one of their foreign smugglers, and she had to go in to – well, serve lunch and shit, y’know? Legend has it that the smuggler’s cigarette fell out of her mouth when she saw my grandaunt. So yeah. After that, the courting began big-time.
The smuggler was away at sea most of the time, but she always brought something back for grandaunt. Precious stones. Beautiful silks. She gave grandaunt gold bars, if you would believe it. Once, some old books that grandaunt didn’t know what to do with – but she sold them to some university people who got extremely excited and told her they were historical artefacts. Our family’s fortunes went up with that smuggler. But that smuggler was a weird one, family always said.
She only spoke through a translator when she did business in Mexico. She dated? Courted? My grandaunt for years, but the only thing she ever learnt to say in Spanish was “I love you” and “Have you eaten?” and “You are beautiful”. It almost felt as if she was deliberately refusing to learn the language, to be as foreign as possible. When my grandaunt started trying to learn Mandarin, the smuggler put a stop to it pretty fast. Tore the fucking Spanish-Mandarin dictionary up in front of her. Only time grandaunt saw the smuggler angry, if you would believe it. Some warped-ass shit, if you ask me. But they somehow managed to build a relationship, if you can believe it. The smuggler isn’t the only weird one here, if you ask me – but yeah, grandaunt probably stayed with the smuggler for as long as she did because… dude, the smuggler was giving her fucking GOLD BARS.
She had a knack for finding places that were never crowded, grandaunt said. It made for some pretty good dates, because grandaunt never had to queue up for a fair ride or wait in line for restaurant service. According to grandaunt, whenever the smuggler was around, the weather would get real bad. Fog would roll in, there’d be clouds hanging around all day. This is some big-time sappy shit but. Once, they were caught in a storm.
The umbrella was only big enough to cover one person, but the smuggler walked grandaunt all the way home and refused to get under the umbrella. Grandaunt said the smuggler caught a cold, and was horribly snotty for the rest of the time she was on-land, but she pretended nothing was wrong. She was just really fucking strange, but grandaunt said the smuggler loved her, as best as she could. I mean, if you only know how to say three phrases in Spanish and one of them was “I love you” ...
But grandaunt can only put up with so much of this weirdness, no matter how rich the smuggler was making her. And she was a woman of morals, so she broke up with the smuggler properly the next time the smuggler came ashore. Here’s the thing, grandaunt made sure she cornered the smuggler when her translator was around, so she could deliver the break-up properly. Imagine the horror of that situation. Grandaunt said it was the only time she saw the smuggler cry.
She said she had never seen a man look as uncomfortable as the translator in her life. Truthfully, she thought she was going to die. She thought that the smuggler would put a hit out on her. But nothing ever happened. The smuggler left, and never came back to the house. We used the small fortune the smuggler gave us to change our lives. Grandaunt also never dated anyone properly after the smuggler. She said that no-one could match up to her.
Honestly, I’d find it hard to live up to a weird ex who gave my girlfriend rubies the size of pigeon eggs. Did you know? The only thing the smuggler ever did with grandaunt – the closest thing they ever did – was to slow-dance together. I know that grandaunt has tried looking for the smuggler over the years. But all the leads she had all turned out to be dead-ends. Nowadays, she lives alone in a small apartment by the sea.
She spends most of her time looking out at the ocean, waiting for the fog to roll in. What’s the smuggler’s name? I don’t know. Grandaunt doesn’t say it out loud anymore.”
M.I.S. Notation: my first instinct was to simply label this as a normal person. however, certain details point towards an avatar of the lonely. the constantly being out at sea, the translator, the anger towards learning languages, the empty places, the fog... i sincerely am sorry for your grandaunt for having to be involved with the lonely in any capacity. the lonely is always a tricky one, particularly when it comes to interpersonal relationships. its likely your grandaunt will never move on from this.
it seems as though this particular avatar is done with your family in terms of actual interaction. i hope so, at least. you shouldnt have to be worried about her anymore, although if you hear anything about her, such as whereabouts or a name or anything at all, please contact one of us and provide information.
