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ARCHIVIST
Statement of Julia Montauk, concerning 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. At this juncture, denying it would be futile; the police presented irrefutable evidence, and I myself witnessed the contents of his shed. I am not here to exonerate him. In any case, it would be pointless, as you are likely aware of his death in prison last year. Seven years is a meager portion of a life sentence, hardly the early release he might have envisioned.
Forgive my perhaps inappropriate jest. However, his death is the catalyst for me to finally share this story; something I’ve never felt at liberty to do before. I had always anticipated him speaking out during the media frenzy surrounding his trial, but for reasons unknown to me then, he remained silent. I now possess a greater understanding of his silence, his preference for allowing others to form their own conclusions. Yet, at the time, I was bewildered by his quietude, his willingness to let others speak in his stead.
Now, I feel compelled to confide in someone, and having recently concluded my court-mandated counseling, I am disinclined to recount this to the tabloids, to see headlines like ‘MY FATHER KILLED TO FUEL CULT MAGIC, SAYS DAUGHTER OF MONSTER’ plastered across page 7 of the weekend papers. Hence, you. “Respectable” is hardly the term I’d apply, but it’s preferable to nothing.
Indeed, my father murdered at least 40 individuals in the five years preceding his arrest in 1995. I will spare you the gruesome details – if you are curious, you can research Robert Montauk in any library’s newspaper archives. You will find ample material; the press seemed to disregard the American bombing in April of that year, fixated solely on my father. Several books have also been written about him, none of which I wholeheartedly recommend, though Ray Cowan’s No Bodies in the Shed is perhaps the closest to factual, despite its implication of my complicity, even though I was only twelve at the time.
Frankly, like everyone else, I gleaned most of the details from newspapers and court proceedings. My father spent my formative years murdering dozens, and I remained oblivious. Yet, the more I reflect on my childhood, the more convinced I become that there was something more profound at play. I have no concrete theories to decipher its meaning, but I need to commit it to paper, somewhere. And this seems as fitting a place as any.
I have always resided in the same house on York Road in Dartford. Even now, knowing all that has transpired, all I have learned about what occurred there, I cannot bring myself to leave. The shed, as far as I know, was original to the house; it always stood in the garden: aged, wooden, and silent. I don’t recall it being utilized until after the night my mother vanished. That marked the onset of the strangeness.
My early childhood memories are fragmented – mostly isolated images and impressions – but the night she disappeared is etched in my mind as if it were yesterday. I was seven, and that evening, I experienced the cinema for the first time. We saw The Witches at the ABC on Shaftesbury Avenue, as it was then known. I had watched films before, of course, on our small living room television, but seeing a movie on the big screen was awe-inspiring. The film itself, however, was terrifying, and even now I maintain it is far more frightening than any “children’s film” should be. I recall spending much of it on the verge of tears, yet I was proud of my stoicism in not crying. Upon returning home, I lay awake for a long time. The scene of Luke’s transformation into a mouse replayed in my mind, leaving me too afraid to sleep.
It was then that I heard a thud from downstairs, like a heavy object falling. I had no clock in my room, so I was unsure of the time, but looking out the window, I saw a world dark and utterly silent. The thud recurred, and I decided to investigate.
The landing was almost completely dark, and I tried to be as quiet as possible. The fourth stair from the top always creaked, and still does, but I doubt it has ever creaked louder than it did that night as I descended so slowly. The downstairs lights were off, except for the kitchen light, visible from the bottom of the stairs.
Entering the kitchen, I found it empty. The back door stood open, a cool breeze causing me to shiver in my pajamas. I noticed something shiny on the table. Reaching up, I found my mother’s pendant. I had always found its design beautiful: silver, an abstract hand shape with a symbol that I believed represented a closed eye. I had never seen her remove it. In my childish perception, I assumed she had simply left it on the table, an accident, the open door meaningless. I returned upstairs, necklace clutched tightly, intending to return it. She was not in bed, of course. The space beside my father, who was fast asleep, was empty.
Gently touching my sleeping father’s shoulder, I woke him slowly. I asked about Mum’s whereabouts, and he began to speak, but then noticed the silver chain in my hands. He quickly rose and began dressing. Pulling on a shirt, he asked where I had found it, and I told him, on the kitchen table. Following me downstairs, his gaze fixed immediately on the open door, and he paused. Instead of going outside, he walked to the kitchen sink and turned on a tap. Immediately, a dark, dirty liquid flowed, and the sickening, salty smell of brackish water filled the air, though I did not understand it at the time.
The kitchen light bulb blew out then, plunging the room into darkness. My father assured me everything was fine, that I should return to bed. His hands trembled slightly as he took the pendant, and though I didn’t believe him, I obeyed. I don’t know how long I waited for my father to return that night, but I know it was almost dawn when I finally slept.
Eventually, I awoke. The house was silent and empty. I had missed school by hours, but that was inconsequential; I didn’t want to leave the house. I simply sat in the living room, silent and still.
It was almost evening again when my father finally returned. His face was pale, and he barely looked at me, walking straight to the cupboard and pouring himself a scotch. He sat beside me, drained the glass, and told me my mother was gone. I didn’t understand. Still don’t, really. But his tone was so final that I began to cry, and I didn’t stop for a very long time.
My father was a policeman, as you know, so as a child, I assumed the police had searched for my mother and failed. It was much later that I discovered no missing person report had ever been filed. As far as I know, I had no living grandparents, and apparently, no one noticed her absence – strange, as I vaguely remember her often having friends over before she vanished. Everyone assumes she was one of my father’s first victims, but there was never enough evidence to include her in the official count. It’s ultimately irrelevant.
For what it’s worth, I don’t believe he did it. It makes sense externally, but I remember his devastation when she disappeared. He began drinking heavily. I believe he tried his best to care for me, but most nights he simply passed out in his chair.
That was also when he began spending considerable time in the shed. I had never paid it much attention before. To me, the sturdy wooden structure was merely home to spider webs and rusted garden tools, used annually to tame our overgrown garden. But soon after my mother’s disappearance, a new, robust padlock appeared on the door, and my father spent countless hours inside.
He claimed he was woodworking, and occasionally, I heard power tool sounds from within, and he would present me with small wooden trinkets he’d made, but mostly there was silence. Perhaps I should have been more concerned by his hours in there, and the odd smell, like tinned meat, but I was preoccupied with my own grief.
He was also gone most nights. Often, I would wake from nightmares to find the house silent and empty. I would search for him, and he would be gone. Unlike my mother’s disappearance, this didn’t fill me with despair. I knew he would return eventually, when he finished what I assumed was ‘police business’. Sometimes, I lay awake until he returned.
Once, as I lay awake, I heard him enter my room. I pretended to be asleep. I don’t know why, but I feared trouble if he knew I was awake. He approached and gently stroked my face. His hands smelled strange – the scent of blood, unknown to me then, mixed with the faint, saline smell of brackish water. He whispered to me then, believing me asleep, promising to protect me, to ensure “it wouldn’t get me too”.
His words were strangled; I believe he was crying. As he left, I opened my eyes slightly and saw him. He stood by the door, face in his hands, wearing light grey overalls stained with a thick, black substance. I often wish I had asked him about that night. Had he known I was awake, had I asked in that moment of vulnerability… Well, it’s far too late now.
Over the next couple of years, I noticed my father was frequently injured, seldom without a plaster, bandage, or bruise. I also occasionally found small blood spots or smears on floors and tables, particularly in the hall. I became adept at cleaning them, never questioning their origin – I simply assumed the blood was his.
He began staying home during the day, claiming a permanent night shift assignment. I believed him, discovering only after his arrest that he had resigned from the police force then. I don’t know the source of our income after that, but we always seemed to have enough.
Knowing what I know now, it sounds terrible to admit, but those were among the happiest years of my childhood. I had lost my mother, but my father doted on me, and together we seemed to be overcoming our pain. I know I’ve painted a picture of an alcoholic recluse living in a shed, but those were generally nocturnal activities. Daytime was reserved for me.
There was only one instance I recall him entering the shed during the day. This was a couple of years after my mother’s disappearance, when I must have been around ten. The kitchen phone rang, and my father was upstairs. I had recently been granted permission to answer the phone, and I was eager to embrace my new responsibility. I picked up the handset and announced my memorized script: “Hello, Montauk residence!”
A man’s voice requested to speak with my father. It was breathy, like an old man, and I thought he had a German accent, though in my youth, many nationalities and accents were grouped as “German”. “What is this regarding?” I asked, wanting to use as much of my memorized phone conversation as possible. The man sounded surprised, hesitantly stating he was from my father’s workplace. I asked if he was from the Police, and after a pause, he said “Yes”. He asked me to tell my father that Detective Rayner was on the line, with a new case.
At this point, my father entered the kitchen to see who was calling. I told him, and he visibly paled. He took the handset and listened intently. After a moment, he told me to go to my room, as this was a “grown-up” conversation. I turned to leave, but as I headed upstairs, the landing light bulb blew.
Bulbs in our house frequently failed – my father blamed faulty wiring – so even at that age, I was skilled at replacing them. I turned back to fetch a new bulb. Approaching the cabinet, I heard my father’s voice from the kitchen. He was still on the phone, sounding angry. I heard him say, “No, not already. Do it yourself.” Then silence, before he finally agreed to do it as soon as possible. He hung up, poured himself a drink, and spent the rest of the day in the shed.
The investigators repeatedly questioned me about the location of the remaining bodies. I told them the truth: I had no idea. They claimed they needed to confirm victim identities, difficult with what remained.
I didn’t know where the bodies were, but I also withheld information about another potential identification method: my father’s photographs. I remained silent because I didn’t know their location and feared making things worse if they couldn’t be found. But yes, my father took photographs.
During those five years, I noticed increasing numbers of film canisters around the house. This puzzled me, as we rarely took many pictures, even on short holidays. When I asked, my father said he was learning photography but distrusted developers, citing past problems.
I suggested he create a darkroom for self-development. I had seen one in Ghostbusters 2 the previous Christmas and loved the idea. His face lit up, and he agreed to convert the guest bedroom. He warned me, however, that it would be off-limits without his supervision due to dangerous chemicals. I didn’t mind; I was just happy my idea had pleased him.
That summer, my father converted the guest bedroom into a darkroom. Like the shed, it was almost always locked, but occasionally, he took me inside to develop photographs of cars, trees, or whatever else a ten or eleven-year-old might photograph. Mostly, he worked alone, door locked. He seemed almost content those last couple of years. This period, despite its shadows, held moments that hinted at a father’s love, a desire to connect with his daughter amidst the encroaching darkness.
My first unsupervised entry was weeks before his capture. A Saturday evening in late autumn, my father was out. I spent the day watching TV and reading, but as darkness fell, I grew bored and lonely. Passing the darkroom door, I noticed the key in the lock.
I often revisit that day, wondering if he left it deliberately. He had been so careful for years, then simply forgot? I knew the dangers, but something compelled me to enter.
There were no stored photos. To this day, I don’t know where he kept his developed pictures. But about a dozen images were hung to dry. They remain vivid in my mind – black and white, bathed in the deep red darkroom light. Each photo was a close-up, expressionless face, eyes dull and glassy.
Having never seen corpses, I didn’t fully grasp what I was seeing. Each face bore thick black lines forming unfamiliar symbols, clearly drawn on the faces, not just the photographs. I don’t recall the symbols in detail, just the faces, not people I recognized, nor matching the police photos later. This clandestine darkroom, a space meant for creation, was instead revealing a horrifying truth, a stark contrast to the nurturing space a father’s love ideally creates.
I never re-entered the darkroom after that day. For weeks, I pondered telling my father. I didn’t understand what I had seen – not truly – but it felt like a heavy secret, and I was unsure what to do.
Finally, I decided to tell him. He was drinking on the sofa, turning off the TV as soon as I mentioned the darkroom. He remained silent as I described what I’d seen, his expression unfamiliar. When I finished, he stood, walked towards me, and embraced me in the last and longest hug I would ever receive from him. He asked me not to hate him, said it would soon be over, then turned and left. I was clueless about his meaning, but when I asked, he simply said I needed to stay in my room until he returned. Then he departed. This hug, now tainted by revelation, was perhaps the most potent, albeit twisted, expression of a father’s love he could offer.
I obeyed. I went to my room, lay in bed, trying to sleep. The air felt heavy, and I spent the night staring out the window. I was waiting for something, though I didn’t know what.
I remember it was 2:47 AM when it began. I had a new alarm clock, its image still clear. Thirsty, I went downstairs for water. Turning on the tap, a thick stream of muddy brown, brackish water flowed. It smelled terrible, and I froze, recalling the last time this happened. My father was still out, and I went to the living room, desperately watching for his return. I was terrified.
Staring down the road, I noticed how small the streetlamp light puddles were, stretched far into the distance, but not far enough. Fewer lights than there should be, I was certain. Then, the light at the end of the road blinked off. No moon that night, all houses quiet; when streetlights failed, only blackness remained. The next streetlight failed, then the next, and the next. A slow, rolling darkness blanket, unhurriedly approaching. Lights in houses along the road also vanished as the tide approached. I sat, transfixed. Finally, it reached our house, and all lights extinguished, darkness enveloped everything.
A knock on the front door. Firm, unhurried, insistent. Silence. I didn’t move. The knocking returned, harder, the door rattling on its hinges. Louder, it sounded less like knocking, more like… wet meat slamming against the wood.
I turned, ran to the phone. Picking it up, I heard a dial tone, relief in my tears. I dialed the police, babbling about what was happening. The operator patiently insisted on my address until I composed myself. Almost as soon as I gave my location, the door splintered. I dropped the phone, ran to the back of the house. Behind me, the front door burst open, a… growl – rumbling, deep, breathy, like a wild animal, but strangely toned. It seemed to emanate from the darkness behind me, regardless of direction. No time to think, I ran into the back garden, into unexpected light. The shed glowed, a dull, pulsing blue from every crack and seam. I ran towards it, pulling at the door as the growl neared.
The shed was unlocked that night, a fact I still question. Opening the door, the first thing I saw was my father, bathed in pale blue light, source unseen, yet intensely bright. He knelt in the center of an ornate chalk pattern on the wooden floor. Before him lay a man, unknown, clearly dead – chest cut open, gaping, feebly bleeding. My father held a wicked knife in one hand, the man’s heart in the other.
My father chanted, the heart in his hand beating to the song’s rhythm, the blue light pulsing in time. I saw the walls, shelves covered in glass jars, each containing formaldehyde and a single heart – also beating with the one in my father’s hand. Odd detail at the time, but the dead man wore the same pendant as my mother – a silver hand with a closed eye.
I stood staring, time distorted. Hours or moments, unknown. Then, the growl behind me, a presence so close I felt the darkness on my back. Before reaction, movement, or scream, my father’s chant crescendoed, plunging the dagger into the beating heart. Instantly, the presence vanished, the blue glow died. Heartbeats silenced. In the quiet, police sirens in the distance. I heard my dad whisper he was sorry, then he ran. In that shed, amidst horror, was a macabre tableau of a father’s love twisted into something monstrous, yet undeniably, in his warped way, protective.
You know the rest. Manhunt, trial, prison, death. They say 40 hearts were in the shed, excluding the last victim, but police arrived to find only a grisly trophy cabinet. Whatever my father did there, its effects were gone. I don’t know his reasons, and likely never will, but the more I revisit these events, the more convinced I am that he had them. Even in this darkness, a twisted form of paternal motivation, a father’s love, however corrupted, seems to have played a part.
ARCHIVIST
Statement ends.
Little can be added. Police reports on Robert Montauk are predictably thorough. Serial killer enthusiast communities, unsettlingly useful in high-profile cases, have researched extensively.
Besides Christopher Lorne’s body, 40 preserved hearts were found in Montauk’s shed, arranged on shelves, forming patterns of eleven hearts on each inner wall, seven on the door wall. Photos match sacred geometry formulas, but not exactly any specific school. Notably, the remaining bodies were never found.
The pendant symbol is of the Peoples’ Church of the Divine Host, a small cult around defrocked minister Maxwell Rayner in London in the late eighties and early nineties. Rayner’s name was familiar from Statement 1106922, currently a coincidence.
Christopher Lorne was a church member, missing for six years prior to his murder. Rayner disappeared from public view around 1994, the group fragmenting soon after. Police pursued this lead, but no members were willing to speak.
The York Road house is still inhabited; the current owners replaced the shed with a patio a decade ago.
Robert Montauk died in Wakefield Prison on November 1st, 2002, stabbed forty-seven times, bleeding out before discovery. Three points of interest: no culprit or weapon found; he was supposedly alone in a locked cell; at death, his cell light bulb was blown, leaving him in darkness. Even in his final moments, shrouded in darkness, the distorted legacy of a father’s love, and the darkness it spawned, seemed to linger.
Recording ends.
