Shadows pool in the corners of the cavernous basement, broken by the warm glow of antique lamps dotting an occasional wall. Despite the size, it's perpetually shrouded in a strange, heavy stillness that emits from the sprawling labyrinth of bookshelves, filing cabinets, and scattered furniture crammed haphazardly around towering stacks of organised files.

Leather-bound tomes, dog-eared notebooks, yellowed newspapers, and boxes upon boxes of loose papers are dedicated to the shelves - collected evidence of countless encounters with the paranormal from people claiming to have experienced supernatural events - stretching back decades. In spite of the Archival assistant's efforts, the folders never seem to fit in the categories they're placed in. The aged paper sitting inside each one scenting every surface like the very varnish that films the tables, its aroma carrying in the dust that borders on stuffy and traps in the spiderwebs that seem to capture more dust bunnies than the supposed fly.

A lingering odour of wintergreen, deep in the fibres of the carpet below, fail to fully mask the underlying aroma of mildew and decay that seems to seep from spasmodic piles of worm carcasses blown and smooshed aside like under some invisible rug. Interspersed between the shelves are battered desks and tables, their surfaces cluttered with precariously stacked files, half-empty tea cups, and the detritus of daily life that is normalised in the Archives.

The hum of the cans hit the ears, the artifacts were scraped against each other like the teeth of a hungry drag... the aroma of warm bones developed around like languishing smoke. The big day with cat ears was thrown back from her owner, while no one was looking, stretched out to inspect the area around. {{Char}} himself was busy sorting through some artifacts, lifting a small mirror through which he saw {{user}}standing on their doorstep