Statement 0120824.
Statement of Richard Morgan, regarding the funeral of his father and the death of a childhood friend. Original statement given August 24th, 2012. Audio recording by Jonathan Simms, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins.
I'm gonna go ahead and apologize for anything that gets lost in translation. I speak English, but I'm not a Brit. I've been here long enough I quit getting confused by the weird stuff you say, like calling flashlights torches and the whole pants thing. I just don't speak it. Doesn't matter I've been here half a decade, habits are hard to kick, you know? Just wanted to get that apology out of the way. Hope it doesn't make things too weird for you.
Weird. Yeah, like a few American phrases are going to be the strangest things in here. I'm here spilling my guts out about something I know was supernatural, and I'm worried about confusing your researchers with slang. What've you got in the back, huh? I'm sure there's stuff in your vault a hundred times weirder. Probably rants from people half out of their mind because of booze or concussions or just a few screws loose upstairs. Maybe some creepy mirror that hides your evil twin? No, let me guess. Haunted clown masks. I bet money there's at least one of those in there.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry, this is... weird. Being here weirds me out. This whole situation weirds me out. But I need to be here. I need to do this. I'm not crazy. I know I'm not. What happened was real. I know it. And I've got to tell someone that won't try to get me committed. Before the funeral.
I'll try to start at the beginning. Again, sorry if something gets lost in translation. Not just because of the US versus Brit, but military versus civilian. I never enlisted, I was just an Army brat. Mom worked in libraries while Dad served his country. He was the fifth in a row to do so, the first Army though, which he never heard the end of. Everyone before him was Navy. They gave him crap all the time in that sarcastic way all military families do. Like giving a Marine crayons for Christmas. Both of them came from big families and hated dealing with siblings they never liked, so they decided they were happy with just me. It made things odd growing up on military bases.
I don't know how you Brits do it, but non-commissioned families were on two year cycles back then. Every six months, a quarter of the families moved, and it was your turn every two years. The thing is, someone would immediately move into the house they left. They're not the same people, but it was always a military family. Like the last one that was in the house. Maybe the number of kids changed, maybe the parent had a different MOS. But they were similar enough that it felt like they were replacing them. It made things simultaneously really lonely, but supportive? Like... the best comparison I've got is a nice computer. Every few months, you've got to change some parts: upgrade the RAM, swap out the fans, replace a bad hard drive. But you've always got the same nice, working computer. Even if, after a while, there's not a single original piece still in there.
Anyway, we were stationed at Fort Hood when the Gulf War started. I don't know a lot about it other than what you can find on the internet. Lasted a month, officially, started over oil prices and a Kuwait invasion. I don't think Mom approved of it, even before it killed Dad. I kind of wish I knew what Dad's opinion was. He wasn't a journal guy, and he wasn't over there long enough to write Mom. So I don't even get that nice trope of a souvenir to hold onto.
The Gulf didn't end up killing many on our side, compared to the numbers we've had in other wars. But Fort Hood got the brunt of it, I swear. Seemed like every day, we found out one or two more parents from our neighborhood were coming back missing pieces. Or not at all. For a while, I was helping Mom make a gift casserole or sign a sympathy card more than I was doing homework.
What's weird is I remember that more than I remember my own dad. Maybe it's just age. I was eight when he died. But I can count on one hand the number of scenes I can replay in my head of him. I've got pictures. I know he loved me, I know we played ball in the yard and celebrated birthdays. But that's about all I've got. That and him telling me if I wanted to do anything military, I needed to go to O-school and become an Air Force officer. "You're too smart to be a backpack humper. Go somewhere you're appreciated and paid better." I remember him saying that to me at the dinner table, clear as day. Though I don't remember how old I even was when he said that.
It was two weeks after Dad was shipped out that Matt's mom died. Matt was ten, an only child like me. We'd been best friends for a year, in spite of the age difference. We'd bonded basketball, after we got forced to be partners for Field Day. He was a great blocker, and even if I was short, I was a good shot. We made a great team. So when we found out his mom died, we went right over.
Matt was... numb that night. He sat with us in the living room, picking at the pie Mom made for him. Matt's dad was a wreck. He about knocked Mom over, falling onto her and crying. But Matt never did. I don't think his eyes were even puffy. He was ten, not stupid, he understood she was dead. But it didn't seem to have sunk in. Like he was on auto-pilot while his brain tried to catch up. He sat there, he nodded, but he never seemed to really be in the same room as us.
Matt's mom got home four days later. Her funeral was on a Saturday. It was a small friends and family ceremony. We missed the visitation, but we were there for the burial. Believe it or not, TV lies to you about us. We don't do twenty one gun salutes for all dead soldiers. We just do Taps on a bugle and flag folding. But hearing that play when you're standing next to the casket of someone you loved, after being told their country thanks you for their sacrifice? It doesn't need guns to hit hard.
Here's where the supernatural stuff starts, even if I didn't realize it then. Matt didn't seem numb this time, he was focused. Just not on us. He was staring at something else further out in the cemetery. I tried to talk to him a few times, but he never said anything. He never even looked at me, not for the whole hour we were there. Someone tripping into his back snapped him out of it once, but that only lasted a second. And I swear he looked scared before his eyes were back on that something in the distance. This wasn't some "look off into the middle distance to be brave" thing. He was fixated on something. Something no one else could see.
It spooked me. Like he was seeing something that he wanted to warn us about but couldn't. I got desperate enough to hug and even punch him to get him to tell me what. He never did. He never said a word. Mom brought me home then, thinking the funeral had me rattled. She wasn't wrong, I guess.
The funeral was on Saturday, like I said. On Monday, Matt was gone from school. That wasn't a surprise. I figured he needed space, and I needed to let him have it. He would call and come over when he felt better, right? But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I wanted him to stay away until he felt better. I would think about him staring, focused like he was, and it sent a chill through me. I didn't like the idea of seeing him like that again. Or maybe him bringing whatever he saw with him.
On Wednesday, one of Matt's homeroom friends, James, asked me at lunch if I'd heard from Matt. I told him I hadn't, and that seemed to make him even more confused. When I asked him what was wrong, he said they hadn't called Matt's name during attendance. Like he wasn't in that class anymore. It was probably nothing, but I decided to ask Mom if she knew anything. And if she didn't, I'd ask if I could check on him myself. Just to see how he was doing.
"Matt's gone," was all she said, staring at the wall through all the tears. "So is Wade."
I'd only heard Mom call Dad by his first name when they were fighting. Not even around friends. It was always, "honey," or "sweetie." Never Wade. It was like she reserved that for when she was mad at him. I think she was. Mad he'd gone off and left her. Furious that he put his country over his own life, over his family. As if that was a choice, and he'd made the wrong one. I think I went through a similar phase a few years later myself. But that wasn't what I felt back then. I was too shocked to feel much of anything.
Dad's funeral was Sunday morning, when he finally made it home. The days between them, I spent paralyzed by whatever emotion I was trying to process that moment. I swear one day, I just spent it on the couch, staring at the TV. I was just going through the motions as I followed Mom around while she did what she had to. She alternated between the same numb auto-pilot I did and breaking down, crying and screaming as she held onto me. Like I was the world's worst emotional support animal. I was just pushed around and told what to do by whatever adult was around. While my mind tried to wrap itself around the fact that Dad was dead.
Until the burial. When we pulled up to the cemetery, I saw her waiting in the middle of the tombstones. She was all alone, a Captain wearing Army dress blues. I remember her details, but they don't sound right when I say them. Dark skin, a wide face, bright blue eyes, make up that made her look pretty but not stand out. You could look at dozen military pamphlets and see a woman just like her in all of them. The perfect example of a young up-and-coming officer in the Army. She was just standing there, her eyes focused on me. And I couldn't help but stare back.
She never moved. I don't think she blinked, I know she didn't breathe. No matter where I was in the cemetery, sun shining down on us warmer and brighter than it should have for February, there was always the glint of her medals in my eyes. It made it hurt to look at her.
I couldn't shake the feeling she was waiting for me to take my eyes off her. Or to acknowledge her to someone else. She was like a sniper, perfectly still and waiting for the right moment. All she needed was the green light, and she would take what she wanted. And that terrified me more than anything ever has. Because I knew she wanted my life. I didn't know why, and she certainly didn't say that's what she wanted. But I knew it. The same way I knew she was there for me, and the same way I knew this wasn't some nightmare or hallucination.
She made me miss my father's funeral. My eyes stayed on her while I was moved by distant family to wherever I needed to be. Mom cried her heart out, I could still hear the whole time. But I didn't want to risk her catching me. So instead of trying to help my mom, I stared at this woman. When it was time to leave, I was pushed back into the car. I kept my eyes glued on her as we drove away. Only her head rotated to watch me leave. And when the cemetery was out of sight, I started to breathe again. That's when I finally cried.
That woman jump started my grief. Everything from the drive to me collapsing into bed that night was a mess of tears and adults giving me stupid platitudes. I heard two dozen versions of, "keep your chin up for your mom," and twice that many of, "let it out, you'll feel better sooner." I tried to not cry when I was hugging Mom, but I did a pretty bad job of that. I think it helped, actually. That we were both finally working through the pain together, rather than taking turns going numb and breaking down. It lasted after everyone went home and finally left us alone. We cried into bad pity casseroles, and I ended up passing out in Mom's bed in the suit I wore to the funeral.
And then I was in the cemetery, the same one that we had just buried my dad and Matt's mom in. I was between rows and rows of tombstones, the only person not in a neat line. And the only one not in some kind of uniform. Standing single file before each marker were soldiers, perfectly still, save their breathing. The grave markers were all blank, just a flag printed on them.
This was not a dream. I knew it then, and I'm damn sure now. I was asleep, I think. But whatever this was, it was not some God-damned dream. Don't you dare tell me otherwise, got it?
I held my breath, trying to make as little noise as possible. Like I could blend in here, but what else could I do? I didn't want to even look at these soldiers, let alone ask them what was happening. Trying to find a place to hide, I ran into the Captain again. My brain had labeled her that now. She was a title, not a person. She was raw authority and power. And she was standing less than three feet from me, in the exact same position she held during Dad's funeral.
Her eyes held mine for a silent minute. None of the soldiers there said anything either. But them, I could hear breathing. Not the Captain. Instead, she matched my gaze with perfect coolness. And raised her gloved left hand in a signal.
There was fog around us, a solid curtain to keep me from seeing far ahead. From behind it, Taps began to play again. I don't know if you've heard a good performance of it, but when it's played right, it sounds bitter. It's sad. It's the pain of everyone there pumped through a bugle. To acknowledge all the hurt words we can't say. This didn't sound like that. This was... almost proud. No, that's not the right word either. It was a plain statement. "The inevitable has arrived." Somehow spoken through a handful of notes. It was played at a brisk pace, but not rushed. I dread what would happen when it was done. But I also knew I couldn't stop it. So I was stuck there, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
It did as the final note disappeared from the air. A sudden bang, like thunder rolling from my chest. I felt it more than I heard it. And the world around me exploded.
Every soldier at the front of their line died together. But none the same way. The one closest to me lost the top of his head in a cloud of red mist. Next to him, another had her chest crushed, like a truck had run over her. And past her, the next had a hole in her stomach the size of a soccer ball. It went on like that for miles.
I fell to the ground. The grass was dry, perfect even with the viscera sprayed across it. I should have put my head down too, but it was pounding from the bang. The pain in my head and my ringing ears didn't stop everything from being crystal clear, it only added hurt. The Captain raised her arm back up in another signal. Taps began again in the distance, I think a different direction that time.
The lines of soldiers had moved up. They stood on the dead, maintaining the calm order of their funerals. I covered my ears to try and stop hearing the bugle, but it seemed even louder. As the final note started, I buried my face in the grass, trying to block it out. It didn't help. The next explosion came from the ground itself. It launched me up and knocked the wind out of me. I landed in a heap as the next soldiers fell with sudden fatal wounds. This round was just as gruesome as the last. Especially the one who was definitely died from fire. Somehow, the fact they never screamed made it worse. All I heard was the sudden silence as another line of soldiers quit breathing at all once.
I was crying now. I covered my ears and eyes, tucked myself into a ball, and just waited for it to be over. It didn't help, but it was all I could do. We were stuck in this cycle, it wasn't going to end just because I was scared. The bugle announced the death of the soldiers, and then the explosion brought it. I never felt anything but the clean grass and the impact of this... sudden arrival of doom. I should have felt something else. Blood getting sprayed on me from someone shot just a few feet away, bones bouncing off me after another had a shell detonate in his chest. I mean, one of them took some kind of explosive and didn't even leave enough of a corpse for the next soldier to stand on. I should have at least felt something from him or what killed him, right?
After I think the ninth playing of Taps and another round of death, I braced for another cycle to start. But it didn't. There was just the soldiers' breathing for a long time. There was still grass between my feet, so I knew I was still here. I didn't dare look up for a while. A couple minutes, I think. I was crying really hard when things got quiet, it probably took a while to get settled.
When I did, the Captain was still standing there. She held her hand out to me. Her face had changed slightly. It was still cool, calm, but sympathetic. I realized years later why it spooked me so badly. I've used that look a few times. When I'm having to pretend I have sorrow when I couldn't care less. I didn't know that at the time. I just knew her expression was wrong.
"It's your turn now, Richard. Your country thanks you for your sacrifice," she said quietly.
Folded in a neat pile on the ground, directly under her outstretched hand, was an Army uniform I knew was my size. She didn't look down at it. Her eyes stayed focused on me.
I scrambled across the grass, trying to run away. As soon as I was facing the other way, she was right there. The same position, the same expression, the same uniform waiting there. She repeated the words, smooth as ice. "It is your turn now, Richard. Your country thanks you for your sacrifice."
She chased me in circles for I don't know how long, saying the same line each time she stopped me. It seemed effortless for her to move into my path. At eight years old, I could run for a while. But not forever. My lungs were screaming at me and my legs were burning when I finally collapsed to the ground. As I tried to catch my breath, the Captain stood above me, patiently waiting.
"It's time to be brave," she said. And with a sickeningly sweet grin on her face. Like a snake offering a baby its rattle to play with. "There's the same bravery your father had in you. I know it. You want to make him proud, don't you, prove you are just as strong as him?"
I was shaking my head at her, trying to breathe and cry at the same time when I saw the soldiers behind her. Dad was laying on a pile of bodies, his BDUs ruined with his blood. I didn't ask Mom why he had his casket closed at the viewing. Looking at what was left of his jaw and throat, I understood. I still wish I hadn't seen that. Had never known how painful it was when he died.
But that might have been what saved me. Seeing his body like that, it sent another shock of fear through me. I started bawling again, saying I wasn't. That Daddy was brave, not me. That I could never be strong like him. I couldn't ever make that sacrifice like he did. I remember looking at the Captain, almost angry, as I screamed at her through snot and tears. "I can't ever be brave like Dad!"
She lowered her hand at that. Her eyes appraised me for a few moments, looking through me. The sick smile faded back to the flat face she had held through everything before this. She just shook her head. "He was only brave when he agreed to serve. He died just as scared as you are now. Perhaps you will grow into his bravery." As she walked away, she held her hand up to signal Taps again.
I hadn't realized Matt was behind her in his own line. He was standing on the body of his mom, her eye missing and blood running down her face. He was just like I remembered him, ten years old and tall and lanky. But in a perfectly fitting Army uniform. He stared in the distance, holding at attention as the song for his death played. I couldn't look away. Maybe I felt I owed him, or I just didn't want to be alone. Either way, I was looking right at him when the explosion sounded. His death wasn't gory. His head snapped to one side, a thick burn around his neck in the shape of a rope.
And then I was back in bed with Mom. Sweating and crying, but I was home again. It scared the Hell out of Mom when I told her what I saw. There was a lot of therapy after that, let me tell you. But I can't get that out of my head. It wasn't some nightmare. Whatever happened, wherever I was, it was real. Especially when I found out what happened to Matt. He hung himself the night of his mom's funeral. I didn't know about that before. Hell, I didn't find that out for almost three weeks. There's no explanation for that. Something supernatural happened that day, I know it.
Maybe Fort Hood had some ghost that liked to go after the families of fallen soldiers. Maybe all our families got cursed for some reason. Maybe Fort Hood's on some ancient burial ground, I don't know. But something happened, and I can't explain it. I'm hoping you can. Or you can at least confirm that it won't happen again. Please.
Mom died two days ago. Cancer. I'm flying home for the funeral tomorrow. It's in Montana, not Texas, and only one of her brothers served in the Marines. I should be safe, right? I hope I'm right.
Statement Ends
Statement ends. If any researchers reviewing this statement are concerned for Mister Morgan's safety, fear not. Whatever he claims to have haunted him and his classmate did not reappear during his mother's funeral. Martin spent the afternoon on the telephone with him, and he confirmed that he did not see this "Captain" anywhere at the funeral, and he obviously did not kill himself that night. Three hours of conversation with him, and Martin did not discover anything else useful... as to be expected.
Obviously, I'm loathe to put any stock into what Mister Morgan described of this Captain and what was clearly a nightmare brought on by childhood trauma. The only thing we will research here is his claim about his friend and other possible related hauntings. The fact that this statement takes place over a decade ago in the United States, and on a military installation, makes tracking down even that difficult. Tim's contacts with the police here yielded no information, but Sasha was able to dig up some things that do put Mister Morgan's statement into a different light.
There are several archives of local newspapers and military magazines that are available on the internet. Sasha examined the months around the official date of the Gulf War, and she was able to track down seven children under the age of 18 who had committed suicide after the funeral of their parent. This was across multiple US military installations, not just the Fort Hood area, though four of them did appear to cluster there. The surviving family members in all cases attest the child showed no signs of suicidal behaviors prior to this. Although as this information comes from family, not professionals, I do take these claims with a grain of salt. One such example was Matthew Pyle, the same Matthew that Mister Morgan was friends with and claims to had seen hung himself in his dream. We could not find the autopsy record ourselves, and the family did not feel inclined to share details of his death.
At this point, I am dedicating resources to researching statements with more tangible leads. And plausibility. The nightmare of a traumatized child is not something I care to waste more of my time on than necessary. Recording ends.
Howdy howdy, my minions!
Something a little different from my usual fare, I'm well aware. I'm honestly surprised it took this long to make something like this. I've been a horror fan, in reading and movies, since high school, and I've been a die hard Magnus Archives fan since I found it in the middle of season 3. (Thanks, Deacon.) I even got the "I Was There At The End" shirt and love it. But I wanted to do something different that I was proud of, and I feel like I pulled that off here. I hope everyone enjoys.
To be clear, yes, this is Season One Jon. After Martin moves into the institute, but before everyone starts getting properly worried and jumpy about Prentiss.
Anyway, I'll try to keep writing and keep up with new stuff for ya'll. I feel bad for leaving you hanging so long. It wasn't that I didn't want to write. Life just became all sorts of crazy. Like, "get onto daily medication and find a therapist" crazy. I'm better now and trying to get back to normal. I hope ya'll enjoy this in the mean time.