The job interview I had for my position was surprisingly brief, and did little to stem my confusion over the initial interactions I had with the agencies' representatives.

“Ms. Thorne? Thank you for coming to see us.”

Thank you for the job interview, Mr…”

“That’s unimportant.”

Really? I’m not the best at job interviews in the first case, but not even knowing the interviewers name is just weird. Maybe it’s just one of those modern stress-interview sort of things? Of course, the phone call I had gotten after the job interview was really lacking in information. They had said they had wanted to hire me for a position, but they didn’t even specify the job location. The questions he asked during the interview were to put it bluntly unusual.

“Ms. Thorne, how often do you experience the feeling of déja vu?”

“Uh…fairly often, why do you ask?”

The interviewer jots down notes.

“We have your IQ test results here from Hopkins and it says you scored above 160. May I ask why you haven’t already sought employment in another field fitting this score?”

“Pardon my French sir, but where the fuck did you get my medical records?”

Since I was under 26 at the time and still technically under my parents' health insurance I had gotten some tests done at the Neurology department. You know, to check to make sure I didn’t have any major brain damage or anything. After my rappelling mishap I had been through all the military’s testing, but quite frankly I don’t really trust their doc’s opinions, and the VA can’t be much better. And at the root of it all I suppose I have an inherent distrust of the government and thought HIPAA might give me a bit more privacy protection. Fat lot of good that turned out to be. Is the Fourth Amendment dead?

“We have this entry you wrote in the duty logbook of [redacted] on the date of [redacted] describing having secured all the doors in the battalion hq, then hearing footsteps. Could you elaborate more on that?”

“Is this a job interview or an interrogation? You should know that’s completely normal for that base. Hell, I’m told it’s a nightly occurrence for people stuck on duty in [redacted] MEF HQ. Though I guess that’d be expected considering they put their headquarters building in an old, haunted hospital. It almost sounds like a bad story device.”

More note taking. Not gonna lie, I’m a bit worried I might not get this job based on how many times I’ve let some less than polite words slip into the interview.

“Do you have experience with M*cros*ft Exc*l and PowerPoint?”

“Jesus wept, didn’t you read my fucking resumé?”

Getting a second job interview after this one really should have been a red flag.

Surprised at the call-back, I agreed to meet with them again. They gave me a different address than the generic office building, and instructions to talk with the guard when I got there. I was actually rather shocked to learn how convenient this place was to where I was living at the time, my parent’s home. The laser tag place that was popular for elementary and middle school birthday parties growing up was nearby, and it was pretty close to the fencing gym I had started taking lessons at. A girl has to have hobbies.

The outside of the building really wasn’t eye-catching. I actually had driven past it a few times. By a few times, I mean I lost count of how many times I’d gone past it my whole life. The gate guard seemed to have a military bearing, though he had started to let a beard grow out. I guess he recently EAS’d.

“Ma’am, if you could, could you please leave your cell phone with me? Security…”

“I know how it works, boot. I left it in my car.”

For some reason he glared at me for this. People calling me “ma’am” just feels awkward, and I was a bit cranky having to get up early. Falling into the NEET life really was doing a toll on my interpersonal skills. Mortal insults aside, he still gave me my visitors badge and let me wait for an escort, who appeared in no time at all. It was the same weird man who had done my previous interview. He walked me to the main building, and ushered me in to a conference room just to the right of the entrance. It was rather plain, with the standard government go-to of beige as the color of both the walls and the floor. Naturally there were no windows.

A woman, about middle-aged, was waiting for me in the room. As the guy escorting me took a seat next to her at the table she gestured towards the seat across from her, which already had a stack of paper work and, considerately enough, a steaming cup of coffee waiting for me.

“Take a seat.”

As I sat, the aroma of the coffee hit me. It was amazing, clearly not the usual fair for a boring government conference room. Seeing my confused but excited look, the lady explained.

“Several of the employees here are complete snobs when it comes to coffee. While in other agencies we’d be stuck with the cheapest crap SoD*xo has to offer, we have a hard time finding and retaining the proper talent here, so we can at least splurge on java. It’s not Blue Mountain or anything, but it also gets us on the good side of the local coffee shops so it’s a win-win. Now, let’s get down to business.”

“Okay…”

“Our salary should be more than fair. During the initial interview you expressed interest in returning to school…”

“No I didn’t…” She glared at me. “I-I guess I did?”

“…so we’ll allow you to go to school full time. In exchange we’ll start you out as a GS-8 payed at the rate of a full-time salaried employee, contingent on academic performance. We already took the liberty of submitting your military training and community college transcripts. Congrats on your associate's degree in National Security, the diploma’s in that stack of papers there. This state guarantees acceptance to most universities upon completion of a 2-year degree. Now, what are you going to major in for your bachelor's?”

“Uh…Art History?” Chosen solely to be contrarian. I’ve always liked art, and her commanding tone was really getting on my nerves. On top of feeling like there’s been a massive invasion of my privacy, it’s becoming increasingly clear that I don’t actually have the ability to refuse this job. I’m sure I could just leave, but that would likely make a scene, I think.

“Perfect. Almost as if you sensed what we wanted out of you.”

“Huh?”

“First, sign that top sheet. No need to read it.”

Fugggg, what the hell did I get myself into?

“So, now that the NDA’s out of the way, we can read you in on our mission. Some of this may shock you, so please brace yourself.”

“Uhuh...”

“Have you seen the first Indiana Jones movie? Where at the end, he’s assured that ‘top men’ are securing the Ark of the Covenant, before it cuts to a warehouse full of other similar crates?”

Given the topics some of the questions in the previous interview had touched on, I could very easily see the direction this was going. You would have to be a complete airhead not to have picked up on the implications and there were indicators that something like this might happen going all the way back to my far too brief military career.

“What are you implying?” I know damn well what she’s implying, I just refuse to admit it.

“We work as a repository for texts and documents pertaining to the paranormal and supernatural. Ghosts, magic, fae, cryptids, etc., our documents touch on all these subjects and many more besides. While normally at the National Archives there’s an overall policy of transparency in record-keeping, the documents we keep here have been deemed to be a major threat to national security. If public knowledge of these things became mainstream, just think of the upheaval that might occur! And then there’s the issues with those who interact with the documents themselves.”

“What issues are there with the documents themselves?”

“Those who don’t have the right ‘constitution’ for it in our agency, the National Archives…” she paused as if expecting a laugh. Nothing. A pun that bad deserves nothing. “Anyways, those who are firmly rooted in the world of the rational and scientific can’t cope with documents pertaining to the occult. Even being near them can eventually cause adverse psychological effects.”

“Actually reading them, something we officially discourage but in actuality require for the sake of doing the job, can turn them into gibbering wrecks. It’s not quite at the H.P. Lovecraft level of fish-people and unspeakable horrors, but we even have an agreement with the local psych hospital still on the books from back when the bean counters tried to get us to hire those without the predisposition for this job. Which is why we interviewed you for a job.”

“What does this have to do with me?” I know damn well what it has to do with me.

“You know damn well what it has to do with you.” I guess I’m not the best actor. “You clearly have an affinity for the paranormal. Your service record shows it, your psychological profile shows it, even your childhood upbringing shows it. You’re one of those types who has a less than solid connection to the world of the mundane and scientific. Which is just what we need.”

“The flip side of those traits, at least when it comes to job recruitment, is the issue in most cases though. Most people who have those traits also tend to be either overly spacey, not a good trait in this field, or full-on anti-government hippy types. They never even get in the door and have already disqualified themselves from the job from excessive drug usage or not being able to pass a polygraph. So we’re forced to look at candidates who can qualify for the clearance first, rather than finding those with the gifts needed and trying to shoehorn them into a government job. You know how it works.”

“But then that leads to the issue of competing with other agencies for candidates! On the topic of paranormal abilities, I can’t even get into the advantages certain other alphabets get in recruiting, being able to grab people right out of enlistments. We sure as hell don’t have that sort of clout. The job field you were in when you were in the military gets an oddly large amount of sensitive people for some reason, probably a combo of individuals who are intelligent but stupid enough to sign their life and health away.” Ouch. “But most of those who get out get cushy high-paying jobs doing the job they learned during their enlistment. Most aren’t foolish enough to squander that.” I was being called out.

“I think I deserve a bit of a gap, considering I was medically retired.”

“That sounds like an excuse, but it’s no big surprise. Besides, according to the personality profile we did of you, if you hadn’t been injured you probably would have snapped and ended up getting discharged for psychiatric reasons anyways.”

“W-what?”

“You did take an MMPI-II when you were getting checked out for brain injuries previously, right? Did you forget we already subpoenaed your medical records? You just don’t have the right mental constitution to put up with a job like that.”

“Then why are you even hiring me?”

“That kind of thing is downright normal when you’re at that level of other-worldy aptitude. Someone as disconnected from a rational reality as you really couldn’t possibly make it stuck in such a technical field. At that level, they would have to be a complete airhead to even make it through an enlistment, and someone that out of it would probably loose touch with reality completely.”

“You mean they’d go crazy?”

“I mean they’d slip out of this world. So, if anything, I’m doing you a favor giving you this job. A nice, sedate clerical job, where higher education is not only provided but outright encouraged. We aren’t requiring you to work full time, and you can even go to those cosplay conventions your file says you like.

“How did you know about that?”

“You posted it to *nstagram! Anyways, you already signed the NDA, so you can’t refuse at this point. We’ve even been considerate enough to set up direct deposit, started the process for your carry permit, etc.”

“Weren’t you just calling me mentally unstable?”

“As long as you can fill out a 4473 and pass a NICS check it’s really none of my business. And we know you already have a sizable collection.” At this, she stood up and extended her hand towards me. “Welcome aboard to the Forbidden Archive. Well, that’s not the official name, but it’s the one we use here.”

Reluctantly, I shook her hand. “You haven’t even told me what I’m going to be doing here.”