The Magnus Protocol 29 - Keyed In
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Hi, we are here to talk to you about Sucrebae, a perfumery we love so much, they have not one, but two official The Magnus Archives perfumes, one inspired by John and Martin, and another inspired by the mysterious Ex Altiora, a book from the library of Jurgen Leitner. Sucrebae also make official perfumes for our friends over at Old Gods of Appalachia, including Blood and Bone and Unknown Roads.

you should check them out. Sucre Bay is a women-owned and operated perfumery that is vegan and cruelty-free, witchy and sometimes irreverent. Expect perfumes like You're in a Cult, Call Your Dad, or Vodka and Swearing, the ever-popular Chloroform, or Paracetamol.

Papa's Waffles. Sucre Bay do a range of exciting and unique fragrances you won't find anywhere else. They broadly fit into the following five categories. Classic scents that pass the test of time. Goth scents, for those who like it dark and mysterious. Witchy scents that are mysterious and potion-y. Nerdy scents, for all the self-professed nerds out there. And femme scents, the classically floral and sweet scents, but...

We recommend them for anyone of any gender. Sucre Bay small batch perfumes are not like any other. You can find out more by going to www.rustyquill.com forward slash perfume. That's rustyquill.com forward slash P-E-R-F-U-M-E. Also, you can join the supportive and kind Sucre Bay community with over 18,000 members on Facebook.

at facebook.com forward slash groups forward slash Sucrebae. That's S-U-C-R-E-A-B-E-I-L-L-E. This episode is dedicated from Skylar Keros to Aaron. You are so incredibly important to us and worthy of genuine and gentle love and affection. We hope at some point you'll be able to see this too. We'll always be there for you, no matter what. Sincerely, Skylar. Rusty Quill presents The Magnus Protocol.

Sam, are you still out here? Oh shit! Sam! Sam, are you okay? Sam? Can you hear me? Christ, Sam, no. No, no, no, no. Sam! Oh, thank God. Let's get you inside. You're sure you don't want me to get the others? No.

Lena will just want me to sign some kind of waiver. Go and look at Karen, Alice. I just can't face one of her "I told you so's" right now. Alright. What happened? I went outside to see the car. It was a Bentley. I watched it leave and then it was just there. You're sure it was the same thing? I'm sure. Everyone else that attacked ended up, well... Dead?

Yeah. I don't know. It didn't feel like it wanted to kill me or eat me or whatever. It felt more like it was searching for something in my head. Random memories just kept popping up and then suddenly I was talking and couldn't stop. It was like that bit was an accident. Do you know what it wanted? What it was looking for? It kept going after anything it could on the Magnus Institute.

Then my mind went to the Hilltop Centre and... And? I think we need to go there. Now, or something terrible is going to happen. Sam, I just found you lying unconscious in the rain. You can't stop shaking. You're going to be lucky not to catch pneumonia. Don't think we're running off. Something important is going to go down and I need to get there. No. No, you can't stop me. Wanna bet? Celia, please.

Fine. But we're going together. Call Alice and let her know what's happening, just in case. I'll ask Georgie if she can look after Jack this morning. Thank you. Don't thank me. This is a really, really bad idea. I'm heading off for the night, Gwen. Make sure you lock up when you're done. Are you sure I can handle such an important responsibility? There's no need for that, Gwen.

I actually thought you did rather well with the minister, all things considered. Let's not end things on a sour note. I'm afraid I do have to run. I presume I can trust you to close up? If you like. Excellent. Please don't call me unless it's an emergency. Cheshire Police Constabulary. How? Case: Homicide. 30/01/2020 0035. Cheshire East CID Repository.

Item, 1 x 2019-2020 Travel Diary, Pink with Flowers, Significant Blood Damage, UPC, 2956-7236-76 Case, 3692-20 Serial Number, 9528-3674 Collector, David Collins, SOCO-98549

Routing to Northwest Long-Term Evidence Storage. Scanned information reads, Travel Diary of Mrs. Viola Locke. If found, please return to 151 Lacey Green, Wilmslow, England, SK9-4BY, or call 0787352, text obscured by bloodstain, and get a lovely smile as a reward.

Tuesday, 19th November, 2019. 14.30-ish. Stanley has really outdone himself this time. Woke up 7.45am, expecting a short walk around the green before aerobics, and instead he throws a new travel diary in my lap—that's you—and tells me to pack a bag for somewhere cold this afternoon.

Spent first half of the morning packing, then second half running around like a headless chicken looking for my passport. Thank goodness I renewed it. Nearly missed the taxi after Stan had to rush back inside for the fourth time to check the oven was off, and even then he still managed to forget his stick. I'll let him off this time, though. Feels a little ungrateful to get on his case when he's gone to all this trouble.

Besides, I'm fairly certain I left the immersion heater on. Must remember to turn it off when we get back before he sees it or he'll pitch a fit. Apologies for the handwriting diary. In back of the taxi, on way to airport. 1515. Ugh. The sly devil. I knew he was doing something up in the loft. Probably digging through the old travel box. The soft old thing.

Pardon the crumbs, I'm just having a spot of tea and cake before the plane. Note, call Sandra when we land. Get her to turn off the immersion. 7.30pm. He's only gone and booked the Archibald. Even the same room. And you'll never guess, that dashing Tomas, who was serving the drinks with his funny little jokes, he's the manager now. I feel oddly proud of that. I'll have to leave it there, absolutely shattered. We've got a big day tomorrow.

Must call Sandra first thing. Wednesday, 20th November, 2019. 8 p.m.

"'This is the first chance I've had to write all day. "'Breakfast by the river, then up onto Charles Bridge, "'gorgeous as ever, but cold. "'Across to Old Town, past that wonderfully gothic tower and fancy clock. "'Stopped for food. "'Stan ordered an early beer, but I let him off as he's been on grand form. "'Stumbled on this hilarious sex museum on the way back.'

Stan was all blushing and averted eyes, but I insisted we went in. Then it was back to the hotel to freshen up for a lovely seafood dinner in camper. He's definitely keeping us away from Lover's Bridge. Probably wants to reenact his proposal. I doubt he even could with his hip, but I suppose I'm happy to play along. He may be a grumpy old fart, but he does love me. I hope our lock is still there. Could you imagine? Fifty years locked together.

Goodness knows it stands a better chance than most. That must have been the biggest padlock they sold. It barely fit around the rails. Right, off to Nod. I always get mawkish when I'm tired. Must, must, must call Sandra in the morning. Thursday, 21st November, 2019. Or demknut, svirt svrtse. Thursday, 24th December, 2020. I miss him. I'm all alone on Christmas. And it's my fault.

Friday, 1st January, 2021. Happy New Year, Stan. Friday, 29th January, 2021. I never told you what happened, did I, diary? I just agreed with whatever they said had happened. But I suppose I should write it down before I use the key.

It was raining when we went to Nakampia. It was cold, wet, and honestly, if Stan wasn't so set on going, I would have skipped it. Anniversary or not. It turned out they'd cut all the locks off the bridge years ago, so there was no sign we'd ever been there. I could tell Stan was disappointed, but he still dropped to one knee. Silly git. And, just as I expected, he got stuck. His hip always played up in the damp.

Thankfully, a local lad stepped in, but I could tell Stan was really upset. This was supposed to be his grand gesture, and instead, he was filthy, I was shivering, and the cafe wasn't even open yet. But you know Stan. When he gets a bee in his bonnet, there's no stopping him. So he marches over to see when the cafe opens and starts faffing around, checking the doors, even though he can see the closed sign. A moment later, he's calling me over.

He points down some narrow stone stairs that lead to the canal. At the bottom, there's a little sign with a picture of a lock, surrounded by the words: "Zancheny Muzeum". My check isn't what it was, but according to Stan, it meant "The Lock Museum". Stan got all excited at this, said he was going to buy another lock for the bridge, come hell or high water. I tried to talk him out of it, but he was on a mission.

It was only when we reached the bottom of the stairs that we noticed the squat man outside. He was soaking, worse even than us, and he didn't even seem to care. Instead, he sat on the museum step playing some game with a manky-looking deck of cards, and somehow smoking a pipe despite the downpour. Scruffy doesn't begin to describe it, his clothes were patched all over and the shapeless floppy hat he wore barely covered his lank hair.

Stan was hesitant. We were out of sight of the road, after all. But he put a brave face on and pointed with his stick before speaking loudly and clearly. "'Open?' the man blinked slowly, then gave a lazy nod. "'I wanted to get back to the road, but off Stan went, ducking under the heavy wooden lintel. And I followed him.'

It was dark and damp-smelling inside. Unsurprising, really, given it was so close to the canal and the weak bulbs shed just enough light to see the tunnel led to a spiral staircase leading downwards. I told Stan he was going to break his neck, but he just limped on down them without a backwards glance. At the base of the staircase was a colossal wooden door. There was a thick white key in place of a knocker that had four spiky arrows pointing inwards at the handle end.

I was rather proud of myself for recognizing the symbol of the Knights of Malta who supposedly built the canal. Stan tried the door and it seemed locked tight. He turned to me then, so crestfallen by this latest defeat that I couldn't help but take pity on him. He clearly hadn't seen the key so I reached out and grabbed it myself. It was clearly made from some sort of ivory, smooth and cold to the touch, colder even than the stone of the tunnel itself.

I half worried it might be frozen in place, but it came away from the knocker easily and, I swear, when I slid that key into the keyhole, I heard the lock grind open before I'd even turned it. Stan hurried inside with a satisfied grin and I followed. The room beyond was large, with damp stone walls interlaced with thick oak beams and a large millstone in the center.

Lined around the walls were incongruously pristine dark and glossy wooden plinths, each with a little pillow displaying a different lock. There were some simple, modern-looking padlocks near the entrance, but walking around the millstone they grew older and stranger. Some were elaborate and delicate with golden filigree. Others were oversized gothic affairs of worked iron with screaming faces and keyhole mouths.

As I kept circling the room though, they grew simpler. Until finally at the far end was a simple wooden bolt with what looked like a spiked wooden paddle beside it, stained with something old and dark. I turned to point this out to Stan, only to find him still by the entrance, staring at one of the more modern locks. I couldn't see how this had caught his eye given all the other beautiful and grotesque exhibits. But as I drew nearer, I understood. It was our lock.

I don't know how it got there, but I was certain. A closed padlock of thick steel with an engraving. For the love of a lock. That was Stanley's little joke. I'd always teased him about his surname, even after it was mine as well. I gently picked it up. It was ours, after all. And it felt like the most natural thing in the world. That was when everything changed.

First, the main door slammed shut with an echoing boom. I cried out in surprise and Stan gave an angry yell. He rushed over and started tugging pointlessly at the iron ring handle, but it was locked again, and there was no keyhole on this side. Instead, there was writing carved deep into the back of the door. "Odemknut zvierdzwerce." I wrote it down at the time and have since looked it up. It means "unlock your heart."

The door didn't shift despite Stan carrying on. It was only when he finally stopped for breath that I noticed a sound in the previously silent room, rushing water. That was when I really got frightened. Sounds silly, I know, but up to then I was still assuming it would all work out. It would turn out the wind caught the door and we'd be let out, that somehow it was all a mistake. But the water, that scared me.

Filthy water was already pouring in under the door, and even as I watched, it creeped up the edges on each side, spurts of the same fetid liquid rapidly gushing in with terrible force. It was even seeping between the wooden boards of the door itself, which began to groan under the strain. We hurriedly backed away, our feet splashing through the already rising water, searching for a way out.

Looking around, I saw more pouring in from between the stones on all sides, trickles thickening into gouts, and it wasn't long before it was lapping at our knees. Stan was yelling again, screaming for help, but there was no one to hear besides me and whatever had locked us inside. As I was splashing around, my foot caught on something heavy protruding from the floor. A bolt. Heavy iron against the floor covering what looked like some sort of trapdoor.

In a blind panic, I scrabbled with my arms for the bolt, straining my neck to keep my chin above the surface. My searching fingers finally found it and, without thinking, slid it open. Suddenly the walls and floor were rushing up and away from me as I fell, utterly terrified, certain I was going to drown down there, alone in the dark. Instead, I landed hard, only a few feet down, with the stinking water rushing past me in a torrent, down and away through a tunnel.

I forced myself up till my shoulders just cleared the trapdoor. The water level had lowered as it drained away down my tunnel, but it wouldn't be long before it climbed again, as ever more water streamed in, even from the darkness above now. I looked over at Stan. He had seen what happened and, for a moment, he smiled, moving towards me. I try to remember that smile, the look on his face when he thought everything was going to be okay. Then his foot slipped,

His hip gave way and he fell. Hard. I heard his skull crack on the wet millstone even over the roar of the water. I still like to tell myself that was when he died. But I couldn't possibly have heard him begging me for help. But the water was so strong. Too strong. Every second I hesitated more was rushing through the trapdoor, threatening to wash me away with it. Soon I wouldn't even be able to close it.

So I braced the trapdoor against my back and then heaved it upwards, thrusting with my legs. I've no idea how my back held up under the strain, but I managed to force it closed. Except the bolt on the underside was weaker than the one on top. I knew it wouldn't hold on its own. Not unless... unless I locked it. So I did, using our lock. Water was still pouring through all four sides of the trapdoor, but it was holding.

I didn't know how long for though, so then I ran, forcing myself along the tunnel through the icy water with numb legs before it rose too high. I know I couldn't have heard him calling for me, even if he was still alive, which he wasn't. I couldn't have heard it over all the rushing water and through the sturdy wood of the trapdoor. He wasn't calling for me, but I heard him as I escaped down the tunnel. I still hear him.

I don't remember much of the rescue. I was unconscious for most of it, but apparently I was still screaming as they bundled me off to the Narfranský hospital. It turns out that the lad who helped Stan up earlier heard my screams coming up through a drain and called for help. I'm still in contact with him. He's called Andrey and has a beautiful little girl. Stan washed up two days later on the bank of the Vltava. They wanted me to identify the body, but I didn't recognize him.

We made the news, you know. Two stupid British tourists mistake flood relief tunnels for a tourist attraction. But I know it was real. I've still got the key. I wanted to throw it away so many times, but I just couldn't bring myself to. Horrible or not, I traded Stanley's life for it. And it is so very beautiful. Even better. It works. I haven't found a lock yet that it doesn't open.

doors, safes, lock boxes. I even tried it on a crack in the wall once, just to see what happened. It can open anything. I've been thinking about using it on myself. I could push it into my chest, give it the smallest turn, and open up my heart. Just reach in, and pull out all the grief. Perhaps I will. After all, what have I got to lose? Either way,

So... How's Sunlight treating you? You know... Can't complain. News to me. Ha. If I'm honest, I... Actually, I am struggling to get back on days. I keep catching myself online at 2am. Yeah, I noticed.

What can I say? Insomnia's a bitch, Alice. Not like anyone else is up there. Nonsense! The night is full of creeps and weirdos. Hmm. You'd think I would fit right in. Your words, not mine. So, how's things your end? Sam still getting on okay? He's doing fine. Wow. I thought you two were close. So did I. Ah. Listen, Alice, while you're here...

I've been meaning to talk to you about something, uh, serious. Yeah, I know what you're going to ask, and no, Salmon Pink really isn't working for you. You need something in rich puce. Alice, we've got to talk. It's important. Okay. So, um,

The thing is, the new job is... it's not exactly... Damn. I'm really sorry, but I think I need to check this. Hold on for two minutes. Oh, yeah, sure. To listen to your messages, press 1. You have one new message. Alice, it's Sam. I thought you should know. Celia and I are on our way to Paddington right now. We're catching a train to Oxford...

I think we need to stop the archivist thing from doing whatever it's going to do at the hilltop center. I know you won't want us to go. You'll just be like, it's stupid, it's reckless, you're an idiot, but...

Alice? Listen, Teddy, I'm really sorry, but I have a train to catch. A train? Right. No, honestly, Ted, I'm so sorry. It's really important. I mean, I wouldn't rush off like this if... Sure, sure. I get it. Drop me a line later, yeah? We can pick up where we left off. Of course. Great. Cheers, Teddy. Look after yourself. For God's sake, Sam, pick up.

Pick up, pick up, pick up! You useless sack of... Hey. What the hell do you think you're doing? Okay, Alice, listen. No, you listen! You're going to get off that train right now, otherwise I will come in there and drag you off. Do you hear me? Take it.

No, I don't need a ticket. I'm just grabbing my mate. I can't let you pass without a ticket. You can buy one over at the ticket desk. For God's sake! Doors are closing, Alice. I'll call you once we're in our seats or something. No, Sam, wait! Sam! Damn it! Miss, I'm going to have to ask you to step aside. Listen, mate, I just... Miss... Wait...

Do you see that? Who? Seriously? What? No! Look! Look! On the train! Right, that's it. Sarah, can you show this woman out please? No, no, wait! Listen, I... Fine! Fine! Forget it! Pick up Sam! Pick up! It's on the train! It's on the train!

The Magnus Protocol is a podcast distributed by Rusty Quill and licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial Sharealike 4.0 international license. The series is created by Jonathan Sims and Alexander J. Newell and directed by Alexander J. Newell. This episode was written by Alexander J. Newell and edited with additional materials by Jonathan Sims.

With additional voices from Jonathan Sims...

The Magnus Protocol is produced by April Sumner, with executive producers Alexander J. Newell, Danny McDonagh, Lynn C., and Samantha F.G. Hamilton, and associate producers Jordan L. Hawke, Taylor Michaels, Nicole Perlman, C.T.S. DeRaven, and Megan Nice.

To subscribe, view associated materials, or join our Patreon, visit RustyQuill.com. Rate and review us online, tweet us at TheRustyQuill, visit us on Facebook, or email us at mail at RustyQuill.com. Thanks for listening.

Hi, we are here to talk to you about Sucrebae, a perfumery we love so much, they have not one, but two official The Magnus Archives perfumes, one inspired by John and Martin, and another inspired by the mysterious Ex Altiora, a book from the library of Jurgen Leitner. Sucrebae also make official perfumes for our friends over at Old Gods of Appalachia, including Blood and Bone and Unknown Roads.

you should check them out. Sucre Bay is a women-owned and operated perfumery that is vegan and cruelty-free, witchy and sometimes irreverent. Expect perfumes like You're in a Cult, Call Your Dad, or Vodka and Swearing, the ever-popular Chloroform, or Palliative.

Papa's Waffles. Sucre Bay do a range of exciting and unique fragrances you won't find anywhere else. They broadly fit into the following five categories. Classic scents that pass the test of time. Goth scents, for those who like it dark and mysterious. Witchy scents that are mysterious and potion-y. Nerdy scents, for all the self-professed nerds out there. And femme scents, the classically floral and sweet scents, but...

We recommend them for anyone of any gender. Sucre Bay small batch perfumes are not like any other. You can find out more by going to www.rustyquill.com forward slash perfume. That's rustyquill.com forward slash P-E-R-F-U-M-E. Also, you can join the supportive and kind Sucre Bay community with over 18,000 members on Facebook.

at facebook.com forward slash groups forward slash Sucre Bay. That's S-U-C-R-E-A-B-E-I-L-L-E.

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