by Matthew Ward
The room in which they now found themselves was crammed from floor to ceiling on every side with all manner of ledgers, binders, and books. The children promptly located Wall C, then started at opposite ends and began working their way inward.
After twenty minutes of searching and nearly falling from the ladder twice, Arthur managed at long last to locate the current volume of Detailed Dimensions of the Human Body.
“Got it!” he yelled, pulling the book from its shelf and scrambling down the ladder.
“Phew. I thought I was going to die of dust inhalation,” Ruby coughed. “Let’s have a look.”
The two met at the center of the wall, where Arthur dropped the heavy tome on a nearby reading table. “If Overkill and Undercut are indeed the Tallest and Shortest Humans Alive,” he announced, “their names will be listed in these pages.”
Arthur shared a hopeful look with his partner, then opened the book. The crisp leather binding creaked as he flipped through to the index. “Let’s see here . . . ‘head’ . . . ‘heart’ . . . ‘heel’ . . . ‘height. Pages 631-694.’” He thumbed to the first page of the Height section. At the end of a lengthy introduction, the children read the last words on the page: The current record holder for World’s Tallest Human is . . .
Arthur flipped excitedly to the next page.
There, printed in small type at the center of an otherwise blank space, was the single word CONFIDENTIAL.
“What?!” Arthur cried in shock.
“Go to the next page,” urged Ruby.
Arthur quickly complied, but this only revealed a multipage profile on the previous record holder, Longwe Dounga.
“What about the World’s Shortest?” Ruby suggested.
Arthur flipped through the entries for the past ten holders of the World’s Tallest record, but when he arrived at the World’s Shortest section, the children’s eyes were met by the same ominous inscription: CONFIDENTIAL.
Arthur shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t understand.”
“How can they not be listed?” asked Ruby.
Just then, a hunchbacked man pushed a cartful of books into the room and set about reshelving them.
Without a word to each other, the children scooped up the hefty volume from the table and strode purposefully across the room.
“Pardon us, sir,” Arthur inquired as they approached the archivist. “We’ve found something, um, strange.”
“Have you now?” snapped the pallid-featured man. “Well, I’m afraid I don’t have time to help you with your little research project here. There are serious scholars and record holders who require my assistance.”
The children looked at each other in shock.
“That’s strange,” retorted Ruby. “You don’t look like you’re assisting scholars and record holders; you look like you’re shelving books.”
“Yes, well I have to keep myself available for any important people who might turn up, now don’t I?”
“Well then,” said Ruby, “you’ll be happy to hear one of them has just turned up. Do you really not know who it is you’re talking to? My friend here just so happens to be an esteemed member of the Whipple family—as in, the Whipple family who holds more records in your precious archives than any other family in the world.”
“Really?” said the archivist. While his tone was still skeptical, a hint of uncertainty had crept into his voice. “Well, what’s his name then?”
“Arthur, sir,” the boy answered feebly.
“Never heard of you.”
“Well, of course you haven’t,” said Ruby. “He’s up-and-coming.”
“Hmm. What is he, some distant cousin?”
“Distant cousin,” scoffed the girl. “He’s only the son of Charles Whipple himself.”
“Charles Whipple?” the archivist exclaimed. “Charles Whipple is your father?”
“Yes, sir.”
A panicked expression fell across the man’s face. “Oh, I am so sorry. I didn’t realize. . . . You will forgive me, won’t you?”
Ruby gave Arthur an urging look.
“Well,” said Arthur, “I might just be able to look past it—if you were to help us with our research.”
“Anything, anything,” spluttered the man. “What have you got there?”
“We were looking for the World’s Tallest and Shortest Humans,” Arthur explained as he offered him the book, “but all we could find is a pair of blank pages like this one.”
Straightening his spectacles, the archivist flipped between the page in question and the one before it. “Ah, yes,” he declared. “It seems you have discovered a sealed record.”
Arthur scrunched his brow. “What exactly does that mean—‘sealed’?”
“It means that the holder of this record has asked to keep his or her identity private. The name will still be listed in the alphabetical catalog of record holders, but this record—and any others the holder has had sealed—will likewise be denoted by the word confidential in his or her personal listing.”
Ruby seemed especially intrigued by this. “Do you mean to say that people are allowed to opt out of the record books?”
“In order to ensure a complete inventory of world records,” explained the archivist, “the IWRF is compelled to offer anonymity to those who request it. Otherwise, certain records would never be reported at all, rendering the creation of an authoritative catalog quite impossible.”
“But sir,” Arthur countered, with a pointed look to his partner, “why would anyone ever want to keep their records private?”
“While some wish to avoid the public scrutiny and media attention that world-record breaking affords, others wish to conceal certain unsavory pursuits in which they might have participated. Still, you’d be surprised how many criminals waive their right to confidentiality—and end up being caught solely through their world record documentation. Not the brightest bunch, I’m afraid; most of them are just too competitive to keep their achievements to themselves. The police would probably still be trying to charge Freddie ‘False Face’ Ferguson if he hadn’t publicized his record for Highest Number of Unique Masks Worn by a Single Bank Robber.”
“If only we were so lucky,” Ruby grumbled.
Before the archivist could ask what she meant by this, Arthur interjected, “So sealed records are relatively rare then?”
“Very rare,” the man confirmed, “probably one in a thousand. . . . Of course, with such an astronomical number of archived records in general, this isn’t actually that small a number.”
“And there’s no way to find out the identities of these record holders?”
“I’m afraid the only people with access to sealed record information are the Senior World Record Archivists—and they may only use it for the purpose of authenticating new records. The law prohibits them from releasing any such data to the public.”
“Well,” declared Ruby, “I think that officially makes this a dead end. Thanks for your time, sir.”
“Oh, of course. Anything for a member of the Whipple family. Are you certain there is nothing else I can assist you with?”
Arthur sighed. “That’s it, unfortunately.”
The man inhaled through his teeth. “I don’t suppose you could still mention it to your father that Terence Slumpshaw, Associate Archives Assistant, did his very best to help you?”
“Of course, Mr. Slumpshaw,” Arthur assured him.
The archivist’s fingers wriggled with excitement. “Oh, fantastic! Mother will never believe me when I tell her my name has been uttered in the Whipple household! What a day!”
Arthur, unsure how to respond to this, simply said, “Thanks again for your help,” then turned with Ruby and headed toward the door.
As they reached the threshold, however, Arthur stopped in his tracks and turned back to the archivist. “Actually, sir,”
he added, recalling the name Rex had brandished at his father during their doomed dinner party, “you haven’t got anything on Norbury, have you?”
Terence Slumpshaw turned his head with a smile. “If it is here, Arthur Whipple, I will find it.”
• • •
The archivist returned a quarter of an hour later, out of breath and clutching a dented, dusty film canister.
“Please . . . forgive me for . . . the delay,” he puffed, handing the canister to Arthur. “This newsreel collection was the first thing I could find under the heading ‘Norbury.’ The dates range from twenty to thirty years ago, so it may be a bit old—but it does seem to feature members of your family, so perhaps you’ll find something pertinent, hmm? Now, if you’ll just follow me, I’ll get you fixed up with a private screening room and anything else you may require.”
Mr. Slumpshaw led Arthur and Ruby out of the Human Oddities wing and into a medium-sized room furnished with red velvet seats and a film projector, which faced a broad, shimmering screen.
“Here we are,” the archivist announced. “Shall I get us some refreshments?”
“I think we’ve got it from here, Terence,” assured Ruby.
“Very well then. But do bring the canister back to me when you’re finished, so I may properly shelve it and offer you a personal farewell.”
The archivist gave a final fawning grin, then left the room and shut the door behind him.
Arthur popped open the film can and made for the projector. As soon as he had threaded the film leader through the sprocket wheels and flicked on the projector’s lamp, Ruby hit the lights. The two found their way to the front row of seats, where they sat themselves in the darkened chamber and stared into the glowing white window before them.
Arthur drew a deep breath. “Let’s hope this tells us something.”
Amid the whirr of the projector, a scratched and dusty IWRF logo flickered onto the screen. A tinny, distorted voiceover crackled through the speakers as the title faded up.
“Notable Moments in World-Record Breaking! This time: the storied and somber history of the live burial record.
“For centuries, man has endeavored to test his mental and physical limits by digging a hole in the ground, burying himself inside it, and seeing how long he can remain there before destroying his health or losing his mind.”
The picture cut between archival shots of men digging graves, men being sealed into coffins, coffins being lowered into the ground, and earth being shoveled on top of them.
“Receiving air, food, and water through a narrow vent in the compartment’s ceiling, contenders for the live burial record must reside in a four-by-four-by-eight-foot box, buried six feet beneath the surface for the duration of the attempt.
“Given the event’s treacherous and time-consuming nature, few have succeeded in besting the record set before them—none advancing the record by more than a few days at a time. That is—until Agatha Whipple.”
Flashbulbs illuminated a smiling young woman as she climbed into a large wooden box and reclined onto her back.
“Who’s Agatha Whipple?” whispered Ruby.
“My grandmother, I think,” Arthur replied. “I never knew her. Both my grandparents died before I was born.”
The box was sealed and lowered into an open trench, which was promptly filled in with earth, so that only the top of the air vent remained above ground.
“Seven years ago, the live burial record was shattered when Mrs. Whipple, wife and mother, remained underground for a remarkable one hundred and two days—twice the duration of the previous record.”
Shots of the woman’s face framed in blackness by the vent’s rectangular opening were intercut with shots of the changing seasons, followed by shots of men removing the earth around the vent, revealing the long-buried box be-neath. A proud, mustachioed man pried open the lid and lifted the smiling woman into his arms. As he carried her frail body toward the camera amid the resumed popping of flashbulbs, a small boy ran to meet them. The woman wrapped her arms around the boy and kissed him.
“Is that your dad?”
“I think so. And the one with the mustache is my grandfather.”
“Reunited with her husband—fellow record-breaking legend Charles Whipple Sr.—and their son Charlie, Agatha would hold the live burial record for an incredible six years—until one year ago, when it was finally broken by Gregory Lyon, a newcomer to the world records game hoping to make a name for himself.”
“Wait—Lyon?” puzzled Ruby. “That’s the name of your family’s curse. Peculiar, isn’t it?”
Arthur slowly nodded, his eyes fixed to the screen as the film continued.
“Mercifully, Mrs. Whipple would not live to see her cherished record pass to a new champion. One month before the start of Mr. Lyon’s attempt, Agatha Whipple died suddenly of a pulmonary embolism, when an undetected blood clot from her cramped time underground dislodged itself and traveled into her lung, leaving her family shocked and heartbroken.”
A quivering-lipped Charles Sr. stood beside a fir-wreathed gravestone with his teary-eyed son.
“Charles Whipple, taking Lyon’s ill-timed triumph as an insult to his wife’s memory, sought immediate revenge. He buried himself in an underground tomb less than a week after Mr. Lyon had emerged from his own—and remained there an astounding one hundred and thirty-two days, nearly a month longer than his competitor. With Agatha’s honor effectively avenged, the live burial record returned to the Whipple family.”
Arthur’s grandfather climbed out of the unearthed box, his face marked with a somber sense of vindication.
“Wherever there is victory, however, there is also defeat. Gregory Lyon, stripped of his life’s greatest achievement and dishonored, quickly spiraled into desperation. He rushed a new attempt at his former record—only to perish nine days later when his hastily-constructed compartment flooded during a freak rainstorm before rescuers could dig him out.”
“Ughh,” Ruby cringed. “What an awful way to die.”
“Yeah,” Arthur agreed.
“At a funeral attended only by his newly widowed wife and a handful of cemetery employees, Gregory Lyon was entombed once again—this time forever.”
A sobbing, black-veiled woman draped herself over her husband’s third and final coffin as it slowly sank into the earth. When two pallbearers attempted to usher her away, the woman began flailing hysterically, her fingernails scraping the coffin’s lid on its way down.
“Yet some spirits simply refuse to rest. Ever since Mr. Lyon’s tragic death, misfortune has seemed to follow Charles Whipple Sr. wherever he goes, leading some to coin the term ‘the Lyon’s Curse.’ In recent weeks, Mr. Whipple has been run over by a rickshaw, grazed by a falling chandelier, and nipped by a king cobra—causing him to grow increasingly reclusive and cynical.”
“So there’s your curse then,” said Ruby. “Doesn’t sound all that bad if you ask me.”
Arthur shrugged.
In a high-up window of the Whipple mansion, Arthur’s grandfather cautiously peered out from behind a curtain and then disappeared.
“There is, however, one Whipple who remains optimistic. Following in his father’s footsteps, ten-year-old Charlie Jr. has vowed to keep the live burial title in the Whipple clan.”
A soft-cheeked, fairer-haired version of Arthur’s father addressed a crowd of reporters. “If anyone tries to take my mother’s record away again, I will bury myself for as long as it takes to get it back—just like my dad did.”
Ruby turned to Arthur. “Hard to believe your father was ever so young—or so adorable. Sort of reminds me of someone I know, actually.”
Arthur glanced at his partner in confusion, then turned back to the screen.
“And so it seems for the foreseeable future, this revered yet deadly record will remain in the care of the Whipple family. Only tim
e will tell how each will shape the other.”
With that, a clacking sound sprang from the projector as a rough splice traveled through the film gate. There was a momentary stutter in the picture, and then a second newsreel began where the first had ended. A slightly more modern-looking title card jumped onto the screen, declaring: THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF WHIPPLE!
“That doesn’t sound good,” Ruby muttered as the narrator’s muffled voice-over commenced.
“After years of unrivaled record breaking, it seems the Whipple family’s reign has finally come to an end—its last days marred by failure and tragedy. The collapse began just one month ago when, nearly a decade after Charles Whipple Sr. brought his late wife’s live burial title back to the family, the record was taken away a second time.”
The lid of a coffin hinged open, revealing a young man with chiseled features and a familiar smile.
“On the morning of January the twenty-seventh, upstart record-breaking contender Rex Goldwin emerged from a makeshift grave at the back of the Norbury Arms pub after one hundred and fifty-three days underground— successfully besting the Whipple record by a full three weeks.”
“Aha,” Ruby declared. “The handsome face of villainy rears its ugly head.”
“This time, the task of record reclaiming for the Whipple family would fall to nineteen-year-old Charlie Jr.—who had been schoolboy chums with Goldwin until the latter decided to set his sights on the Whipples’ most cherished record. Having vowed to personally protect the family legacy against all encroachers, young Whipple was quick to back up his word, burying himself within the week.”
Arthur’s teenaged father gave a smile and a salute, then retreated into a wooden box, which was promptly nailed shut.
“But after just one night underground, an anguished Charlie Jr. was forced to forfeit the attempt, due to an undiagnosed case of claustrophobia—much to his father’s disappointment.”
Emergency workers hoisted the box from its pit and pried open the lid, revealing the now pale, shivering figure within.
