Start / Skönlitteratur / the Dead Letter Office of Somewhere, Ohio

the Dead Letter Office of Somewhere, Ohio

A series of weird horror podcasts set in the midwest.

27 avsnitt • Längd: 30 min • Månadsvis

Om podden

A series of weird horror podcasts set in the midwest.

The Dead Letter Office of Somewhere, Ohio is a horror-comedy fiction podcast set within one of the last remaining Dead Letter Offices in the country. Join Conway, Wren, and the rest as they archive strange, spooky, surreal pieces of lost mail.

A solo project by a nonbinary creator inspired by Kentucky Route Zero, Twin Peaks, Edgar Allen Poe, and more. Each episode features 2 short stories connected in some way, either narratively or thematically.

What begins as an anthology evolves into…something else. Content warnings are posted in the show notes, along with transcripts.

Written, performed, and scored by Rat Grimes (they/he)
Art by Nerdvolkurisu

The podcast the Dead Letter Office of Somewhere, Ohio is created by Rat Grimes. The podcast and the artwork on this page are embedded on this page using the public podcast feed (RSS).

Avsnitt

NEW SERIES: The Department of Variance (SEPARATE FEED)

7 december 2022 | 26 min

TRAILER: The Department of Variance of Somewhere, Ohio

24 november 2022 | 2 min

BONUS: Nine II Midnight: Terrors of the Real World

31 oktober 2022 | 63 min

It seems like the terrors of the real world are most appealing to you and for good reason...

On the Eve of Halloween, a dozen storytellers sneak inside the abandoned Darklight Carnival grounds to share a chilling batch of stories in two varieties. This year they split up to uncover the fears that lurk within and horrors that walk among us.

One group will head to the Ferris Wheel to tell tales of real-world terror. The other will venture into the Funhouse to spin yarns of the frightening spirit world. Which path will you embark on first?

Nine II Midnight is a collaborative storytelling event between 12 podcasts:

The Dead Letter Office of Somewhere, Ohio

CREDITS & CONTENT WARNINGS

CW: General horror, swearing throughout

Produced by Harlan Guthrie

Master edit by Harlan Guthrie

'Nine II Midnight' written by Harlan Guthrie.

Performed by Harlan Guthrie, Dylan Griggs, Kevin Berrey, Shaun Pellington, Rae Lundberg, Vincent C. Davis, Jess Syratt, Alex Nursall, Rat Grimes, Jeremy Enfinger, Nathan Lunsford, Cole Weavers, and Jamie Petronis.

Pick a path on October 30th at midnight, and keep your wits about you.

9️⃣🔪🔪🕛

TRANSCRIPTS ARE AVAILABLE HERE

CREDITS:

MALEVOLENT

“Scratching” was written, directed, performed, and edited by Harlan Guthrie.

CW: insects, gore

Malevolent

Website: www.malevolent.ca

_________________________

THE CELLAR LETTERS

“Get Up” was written, edited, and performed by Jamie Petronis, and features Brandon Jones as the Newscaster

CW: general horror, mouth noises, licking sounds

Website: www.thecellarletters.com

_________________________ WAKE OF CORROSION

“The Quiet Corridor” was written, performed, edited and mixed by Shaun Pellington.

CW: sounds of bone crunching/cracking, mild terror, explicit language

Website: wakeofcorrosion.com

_________________________

THE DEAD LETTER OFFICE OF SOMEWHERE, OHIO

“Voices in the Vents” was written, performed, and scored by Rat Grimes (they/them).

CWs: fire, home invasion

Website: www.somewhereohio.com

_________________________

THE TOWN WHISPERS

“Bella” was written, Directed, Editing by Cole Weavers

CW: body horror, sleepwalking, nightmares, evil pets

Website: www.thetownwhispers.com

_________________________

PARKDALE HAUNT

“Who Goes?” was written by Alex Nursall and Emily Kellogg, with engineering and sound design by Alex Nursall.

Performed by Emily Kellogg, Alex Nursall, Ian Boddy, and Harlan Guthrie.

CW: ghosts/hauntings, home invasion

Website: www.parkdalehaunt.com

BONUS: Nine II Midnight: Horrors of our Dreams

31 oktober 2022 | 63 min

It seems like the horrors of our dreams are most frightening to you...

Nine II Midnight is a collaborative storytelling event between 12 podcasts:

The Dead Letter Office of Somewhere, Ohio

CREDITS & CONTENT WARNINGS

CW: General horror, swearing throughout

Produced by Harlan Guthrie

Master edit by Harlan Guthrie

'Nine II Midnight' written by Harlan Guthrie.

Pick a path on October 30th at midnight, and keep your wits about you.

9️⃣🔪🔪🕛TRANSCRIPTS ARE AVAILABLE HERE

CREDITS:

WOE.BEGONE

"The Almanac Building" was written, directed, performed, and scored by Dylan Griggs.

CW: gore, animal death

Website: www.woebegonepod.com

_________________________

OUT OF THE ASHES

“Train Ride” was written, directed, and performed by Vincent Comegys-Davis.

CW: hospitals/medical issues, death, blood, gore

Website: www.outoftheashespodcast.com

_________________________

THE NIGHT POST

"Dead Space" was written, performed, and produced by Rae Lundberg

CW: animal peril, drowning

Website: nightpostpod.com

_________________________

NOWHERE, ON AIR

“A Dream” was written, performed, and edited by Jesse Syratt (credits for SFX available in the transcript)

CW: brief graphic description of body horror and sounds.

Website: https://nowhereonair.carrd.co

_________________________

HELL GATE CITY

“Shadow of the Eliminator” was written and performed by Kevin Berrey with music by Cheska Navarro.

CW: hallucinations/visions, bodily fluids

Website: www.hellgatecity.com

_________________________

THE STORAGE PAPERS

“Silly Billy” was written, edited, and mixed by Nathan Lunsford.

Performed by Jeremy Enfinger (as Jeremy) and Nathan Lunsford (as Billy).

Music credits available in the transcript.

CW: profanity, child injury, brief gore (SFX)

Website: www.thestoragepapers.com

BONUS: NINE II MIDNIGHT - PROLOGUE

1 oktober 2022 | 8 min

DLO 19: WE'RE STILL HERE

1 mars 2022 | 37 min

Forward and backward are not stable concepts. The curtains close, a mask is shattered, but we're still here. Wren helps a lost soul and meets some familiar ones.

Thank you all so much for listening, and special thanks to guests Jess Syratt of Nowhere, On Air and Shannon Strucci of Critical Bits and more.

(CWs, spoilers: bullying, derealization, implied dysphoria, brief fire and engine sounds, alcohol, smoking)

*audience shuffling and chatting, dies down*

LOST FISHERMAN: “Good evening, dear audience. Tonight we present to you the final act in a series of strange events. The detective this evening will be played by Wren once more, with the receiving clerk reprising the role of the vanished. I will be your chorus. When you see me again, it will all be over. When I return, you will not be ready, but it must end as all things do. Until then, please enjoy the show.

“A crack in the sky and a hand reaching down to me”

WREN:

The vault wasn’t so much an actual vault, but–as you’ve no doubt surmised–a cave. Like the cave I had encountered before, where Lucy served me breakfast. Where I cried over eggs and toast. Maybe just a different part of the same cave, even. All around me, stacked and scattered throughout the yawning caverns was dead mail: letters, packages, objects covered in grime and dust. The light from my phone only revealed a harsh circle in front of me, leaving much of the vault in total darkness. I felt things stirring in that darkness whenever I turned away. They gathered behind me, at my sides, spiraled gaseous tendrils around my ears. But they dissipated any time I faced them.

I flipped through folders and sifted through cabinets and baskets full of decomposing paper. I found many strange stories among the mundane cruft. Some stories I had heard before, some I had not. These pieces had little in common: from different parts of the country, different times, different people. Many followed a similar thread, though.

Something under the office’s purview, my purview, appeared in each: a moth here, an alien worm there. Just little hints of the ineffable, the sublime radioactive backdrop that most people tune out. This damp hall was where my furry friend would have ended up, had I not saved them from that fate. I panned the pulp silt for gold, trying to find any clue I could sink my teeth into.

I went further and farther back, in time and in space. The older files were kept ever deeper in the cave. I was in the middle of reading a peculiar letter regarding an ill-tempered neighbor when my boot struck a vein. Masonry. Not the deep brown rock surrounding me, but a gray slab shaped by human hands. Around the base of the stone was a shallow puddle. I looked up and there I saw an angel.

An angel in gray, its features blurred and worn by time, its form smudged with black. Had the angel been there the whole time, or had it just appeared a moment ago? I leaned closer and inspected its surface.

All across this sculpture–from the top of its head to the base–were dark fingerprints. I gently slid the letter I was carrying through one of the tacky prints. The black substance followed, sticking to the paper. Simply looking was going to get me nowhere. What use is a detective that only uses one sense, anyway? I held the tacky substance close to my nose and inhaled.

Fire, smoke, machinery. This thing was covered in scorched oil. The angel’s hands were clasped to its chest, and I could tell there was something within. I recalled a story I had heard about a sculpture of similar kind. About a disappearance and a hanging thread.

I had to know what was held in its hands.

As if already planting its roots in my mind, the angel’s stone fingers unfolded, and there it proffered an egg, no bigger than a chicken’s. I dared not touch the angel, this seraph bathed in the blood of the ancient earth. I took a step back and shuddered. At this rejection, many fish fell around the angel, all dead and frozen, slapping hard against the cave floor.

Then, from the deepest recesses of my consciousness, there came a sound: steel wire hanging high above a field of corn. The lines shivered in the breeze and sang like clockwork sparrows. Metallic spring sprung forth in a curl of light and noise. An electrical pylon, its arms spread wide, so wide it held the whole state to its chest. Transmissions from everywhere and nowhere collected in the still air inside its ribs. It blew a whispered kiss through the heavy bent stalks, through iced cities and rolling foothills. It blew a kiss as loud as the trumpets of revelation, and spoke in a hundred tongues of electric rapture:

“The next time you see me, you will be dead. And when I come, you will not be ready…”

All of my training, all of my will and wit was for naught in the face of it. And in my mind were two diverging paths, two images in a cracked mirror. One was the face of god, of satan, of bosses and kings, of whips and chains, of a thousand bodies clawing and tearing their way to the top of a pyramid of their own kind. I saw the end of history, a prison of gold bars. I saw an ant on fire under a magnifying glass, carrying this flame back to its colony.

In the other I saw a face I thought I had seen before, strong hands held and strong hearts holding fast against the unceasing tide. But this second image was hazy, uncertain. No way to tell what was to come, but at least something was to come.

I was not prepared to face this pyramid of corpses on my own. I had yet to contend with a force of this magnitude before, and have yet to still again.

So I ran. I ran blindly, avoiding every rocky spire and pitfall as if possessed. I ran until my lungs burned cold and my throat was a sandpaper bellow. I may have run for all time, the ant ever fleeing the flame, were it not for a flickering glow oozing from a bend in the path ahead.

I slowed my jog and warily closer to the light. Beyond the turn I came to its source: a small television set, hissing with static, resting atop a vcr. Nearby were stacks of tapes.

I heard no chase being given behind me, so I closed my eyes hard and just let myself breathe. Once my chest ceased its convulsions, I picked up one of the tapes at my side. There were no official markings or symbols: not mass produced media, these were home movies. And along the spine of each was a different date, but the same name: Lucy.

***

Sound of vcr

Some collage of sounds here

***

The video I saw on the screen was odd, clearly taken on a camcorder, but its point of view didn’t make any sense, and seemed to shift scenes at will. There were birthdays, static, soccer games, color bars, a lakeshore, hissing, a hundred domestic scenes.

Then the video slowed and focused on a single point: a specific space and precise time. And here there was a lone child, 10, maybe 12. She sat alone in her room, the low sun filtering golden through the falling leaves outside. A breeze snuck in through the cracked window and stirred the cotton balls on her bed. She held one hand out in front of her, a tiny brush in her other. Once the dark blue paint had been applied to her nails, she rested her hand on the sill to dry.

Static

She was in the woods, laughing and kicking at sticks and stones. She was alone, but content. She climbed a wide oak, chipping a bit of her fresh polish on the rugged bark. From the low branch she stood and surveyed her quiet kingdom. Not far from her perch, she saw the cave. She had heard stories about it from others at school, rumors of danger in this cave. She heard that people had gotten lost there, or lost parts of themselves. That there was something within that would eat you alive. She heard these rumors, but didn’t fully believe them. Usually she stayed clear anyway. Just in case.

This day, however, she was old enough to know better but still young enough to feel invincible. So she went in.

***

This child snuck into the shale chasm and strained to see in the dark. She took a few steps forward and stopped, startled by the echoing of her own footsteps. She could hear her breathing on the air growing shorter, heavier as the cave whispered it back to her. This wasn’t enough to deter our brave little explorer, however.

She gripped the strap of her backpack tight to her shoulder and trudged inward, farther away from the circle of daylight that dared stick show its face in the cave.

Before long, she heard different sounds ahead. Anonymous low voices, clinking and hissing. She thought about turning back, but wasn’t sure which way back was. The voices and clanking grew louder, and a flicker of light drew her attention. She saw fire spark to life. Glowing embers floated in the dark like tiny red eyes. These eyes, these sounds, she thought, must belong to a great beast with many heads and many eyes, glass knives for fingers, blowing fire in the deep.

She stepped on a loose rock during her ingress, the movement of which clicked and clacked down the stone corridor. She froze, and a great circle of light struck her. The beast had her in its horrible sight. She strained to see through the awful beam. She held her hand over her eyes and tried to speak, to apologize to the great creature, to say she was sorry for disturbing its home. But peals of laughter interrupted her.

More beams of light flickered in front of her, and she saw that the many heads of this beast were actually attached to tall, lanky bodies–human bodies–leaning awkwardly against the shale in baggy shirts and shorts. The lights weren’t the dread traces of a monstrous eye, but simple flashlights. And the floating embers weren’t red eyes, but lit cigarettes, the kind her uncle smelled like.

There were four of them in all: teens who snuck into the cave for a little underage drinking. Though teenagers could be just as fearsome as some beasts, she had learned. She lowered her hands as the laughing died down.

One teen boy pointed his ashy smoke at her hands, snorted and spoke some words she didn’t understand yet but would some years later. The kinds of words that curse a person, that haunt their dreams and sink in icy fangs when they’re at their lowest. No, she didn’t understand the words at the time, but she felt their dripping intent. She knocked over one of the half empty beer bottles and fled the cave, leaving only a thin line of tears in her wake.

She sat on the uneven rock of the cave’s entrance and kicked her heels against the dirt. She looked down at her fingernails, rich cerulean inexpertly applied like waves whipped up by a storm.

She grabbed a piece of loose shale from the ground and chipped at the polish on her left hand until there was nothing left but little scratches.

And then she vanished, and this lone figure became two: a mask, and an invisible hand to hold it.

***

There were other tapes, too, footage of a first kiss, driving exams, awkward names. College, empty pockets, kaleidoscopic tigers licking their stripes and worms inhaling copious ether. And jobs, so many jobs, so many painful jobs that weakened the back and hands. Breakfast joints, transmission towers, a post office. A letter, an angel, a tower, an engine. A promise, split in half: a face sold for a seat in the boardroom.

The last image I saw before the tape jammed in the vcr was a fuzzy lighthouse. Then the cathode ray spat black and white fizzling particles over the cave wall. And in this, I knew clarity.

At this time, I knew where Lucy was, who she was, but not yet how to get to her. I thanked the glowing television and ventured beyond it.

Fresh air soon tickled my skin, and led me to the mouth of the vault–the cave–and I stepped once more into the cold blue sun.

I was surrounded by trees, and all around me was quiet. To my right, a leaf jumped from its branch and made a slow descent to the forest floor. I felt a gust stir my hair from behind my ear. Things here in the land of the real had begun moving again, which meant…

I rushed aimlessly through the trees, desperately searching for an opening in the canopy. I needed to see it, I needed to be sure. And sure enough, in time I did see it: the giant hand above was once again resuming its thunderous plummet to the earth.

I spun around, hoping someone else would be there, someone older, wiser, maybe, someone who knew what to do, whose job it was to fix this sort of thing.

There was no one under the denuded trees but me. That’s when it dawned on me, perhaps much later than it should have. It was my job to fix this sort of thing. I had been called to this middle of nowhere, ohio branch for a reason. The boss wanted me here, and not just to talk about Lucy. There was more.

I keenly felt the same pain that lone child did. I felt the looks and the comments and the barely-stifled giggling. I felt the carceral hex of the conjurers of orthodoxy. I felt the box they taped me in. Luckily, tape is temporary, and cardboard soft: it only appears to be a prison if you let it be so. I ripped at the tape, set fire to the box, and came out real and raw and wreathed in black flame.

And I felt that I was here to help Lucy do the same.

You see, Director, the moral arc of this world doesn’t bend toward anything. History isn’t an arc, or a line, it’s a tapestry of ever expanding silk. And unlike an arc, there is no end to this tapestry. Even if we won here, even if everything went just right, the tapestry weaves on, eons before we were born and millennia after we’re dead. There are a thousand knots and tears and creases all the way down. But this didn’t dissuade me. No, it opened my eyes. All the feats of our past weren’t accomplished by a few great men, ordained by the universe to bend history by hand. It was threads like us that made it happen. Though I may be just one thread among billions, every thread composes the whole, and the more threads that intertwine, the stronger we become.

In times like these, we threads must act together, act decisively, to prevent the weave’s destruction. We must hold the things we cherish close, yes, but also smother the flames that singe our edges. No half measures, no hesitation, no waiting. We must offer our hands in love, and offer fists in kind for our jailers. We cannot survive on one of these alone.

This, Director, is what I believe is at the core of it all: there can be no love too fierce for ourselves, for each other, and no fury too fierce for our oppressors. No one will come to save us–no one will embrace us–but ourselves.

I looked up to the hand in the sky. Though it was now a fist, perhaps it could be opened. I held my hand aloft and called her name. The stone hand in the sky relaxed as it fell, its fingers extended. If you looked at it at just the right angle, we lined up perfectly. I held the falling hand in my hand, gently and sweetly.

The cold stone turned to skin, and the missing second came to an end.

***

The biting wind and rain of Aisling was no more, replaced by yellow leaves sailing on stiff curls of wind. I saw the cave in front of me, a child sitting at its entrance with tears streaming down her face. I gently called her name and her head rose. She seemed confused, didn’t expect anyone else to be there. But the way her eyes widened told me she recognized me. Somehow she knew who I was, and why I was there.

I placed my hand on her head and tousled her hair lightly. I told her I would be right back, and stepped into the cave. I could feel red heat bloom in my face, and my fists clenched into white circles.

The adolescents who had teased this child were still children themselves. They had much to learn about the world, about how to be human. I would forgive them this trespass and hope that Lucy would too, some day. Though they were children, sometimes children require instruction, and I was eager to teach. None but those of us within the cave know what was said next, and I will not reveal it here nor anywhere. Needless to say, some important lessons were learned that day.

By the time I left the hollow again, I had calmed down. I unclenched my jaw and let out an extended breath. Lucy noticed my posture soften, and she too relaxed. She looked up at me from her spot on the loose shale.

WREN: “Are you ready to go home?”

She silently wiped the drying tears from her cheek. I took her hand and helped her up. She stood for a moment, gripping my hand tight, then nodded.

We walked through the woods quietly. No one else was around today, no hikers, no one walking their dogs. We listened to the whistle of the air fluttering through the sparse leaves and the percussive crunch of sticks breaking under our boots. We eventually came to the end of the woods, beyond which was a narrow gravel road.

Lucy released her hand from my grasp and made for the treeline. The dark boughs and branches of the trees overhead leaned and bent around her, pulling away in semicircles. The limbs formed parted stage curtains around her. Under her feet, roots twisted and twined, laying themselves as planks beneath her. An audience waited with baited breath beyond. She turned back at the edge of the sylvan stage one last time. She smiled as she waved goodbye, and walked beyond the wooded theatre into the unknown.

I tried to peer beyond the webbed drapes, but all I could see were points of light near the ground, shining my direction. I stepped up to the edge of the stage myself, took a bow, and returned where I belonged.

***

I found myself exiting the vault door, once more inside the inverted lighthouse. The hanging ice that had been occupying its ceilings and clinging to its walls had almost entirely melted now, and the oppressive atmosphere was clearing. In the center, the engine had vanished. In its stead was a white rotary phone, and strung around its cradle was a mask of a dead president. I waited for the inevitable haunting ring for a second, a minute, an hour, but nothing came. The room was silent save for the occasional drip of water. There would be no call for me. I had to make one myself.

I dialed a familiar number. The line rang only once, and then the call was answered. There was no greeting, however, just a single plaintive line.

“You can take the mask off now, Wren. I’m ready to go.”

I placed the receiver gingerly back on the cradle. Next up was untangling the mask’s elastic strap from the phone cord. Once freed, I held the plastic face in front of me. A cheap, ugly mask from a halloween store, sunbleached from sitting out too long. I peered through its empty eyes and felt bile rising. I knew in that moment that I could put on the mask. That things would be easier if I did. That I had one last chance to take over the Office. One last chance to be the Boss. One last chance to be at the top of the pyramid.

I threw the mask to the wet floor and crushed it underfoot. It made a sickening crunch as I twisted my heel. The fragile mask snapped and broke apart beneath me. In the same instant, I felt a seismic rumble in the earth. The lighthouse shook, and its walls began to crack. I stomped again, and again, and again, just to be sure. And with each stomp, the walls of the lighthouse crumbled further and fell heavy around me, allowing fresh sunlight steal into the chamber. When I finally lifted my foot, the plastic face was nothing more than fragments, loose change. The lighthouse had been reduced to rubble.

I was exposed to the wintry weather again, standing in the open air near the shore of lake Erie. I scanned the clouds above for any indication of the falling arm, but there was no trace of it. The town around me, the specter that once haunted this coast, was leveled. Bits of debris blew in the lashes of wind and sleet. Much of the scrap of this place was being pulled and washed away by the advancing tide, as if the lake itself was reclaiming this rancid land.

And so the inverted lighthouse was gone, the hand was gone, Aisling was gone, and all that remained was me, alone among waterlogged wreckage and rising slush. Well, not totally alone. Along the cold broken shore of the great lake, I found a friend. Alas, it was a friend who couldn’t commiserate with me due to their lack of vocal chords. The little creature’s fur was soaked, yellow beak chipped, but they survived their encounter with the frozen beasts. I brushed the beads of ice from the fur as best I could. My phone was completely dead by now, so I wandered to the edge of the former town. We sat in the frosty grass by the side of the road under a rocky overhang. No sign of my car, of course. It figured it had been swept away with the rest of the place.

We leaned against the wet rock for a time, the chill creeping in once the adrenaline wore off.

“Well friend, we best hope someone drives by before sundown and we can hitch a ride.” I kicked at the loose gravel lining the road. “Otherwise, we might be in for a tough night.”

I sat with legs folded, one arm out with thumb extended. The other arm cradled the little mechanical creature. I let my head hang. I was exhausted and getting colder by the second. The rhythmic patter of the light rain swept me into an unsettling dream.

But as I struggled against sleep, something stirred the air. A rumbling engine. I winced at first, still dazed, but reminded myself that the terrible machine was gone. This had to be something else. The source of the rumble had pulled up in front of me. It was an old cutlass–my cutlass! My precious jalopy!--idling a few feet away.

In the drivers’ seat was a young woman I didn’t recognize. Her dark hair curled and danced in the storm, her eyes obscured by big reflective sunglasses.

LIZ: “Hey, is that you little bird? We’ve been looking for you.”

Though I didn’t recognize the face, I knew the voice. The shadow on the other line.

WREN: “Liz? Oh my god, you made it! And you…stole my car! Okay!”

LIZ: “Hey, just be grateful we got here before you turned into a popsicle. Hop in, we’ve got some insurance money to collect.”

There was another in the car as well, a woman in the passenger’s seat. I sidled into the back.

LIZ: “I’ve been legally dead for, what, a year now? I think I deserve a payout. Plus I’ve got an expensive plane ticket to buy. Let’s get you warmed up. Blast the heat, Ash.”

Liz sped down the slick roads a little faster than I’d have liked, but still, I really was grateful.

WREN: “You have to tell me everything. I’m dying to know what you went through on your side.”

Now in cases like this, Director, it’s important to take in more than just the events. You need a feel for the atmosphere, the scene, the unseen. You’ll recall that forward and backward are not stable concepts: the past outlines the future, and the future colors the past.

If I were an animal, maybe I would be the scrappy songbird, or the oblivious beetle, but recent events leave me feeling uncertain. Perhaps I was the hawk after all. Or simply a beetle playing at being a hawk. Only time would tell. For now, I was alive, and that had to be enough.

***

WREN, on tape: So the town was leveled, and the engine hasn’t been found since. Is that all? Okay, I’ll send her in next. Thank you, Director.

***

Office ambience, phones going off in the background, quiet indistinguishable chatter.

WREN

Now that the director’s debriefing is over, It’s nice to finally meet you face to umm…face, Conway.

LUCY

Oh, Conway’s my last name, actually. Call me Lucy.

WREN

Well, Lucy, it’s nice to know there’s another one of us in the office.

LUCY

Another what?

WREN

You know. Another Gay.

LUCY, with a slight laugh

Right. Well, speaking of this office, I’m actually leaving.

WREN

Oh yes, my assignment at this branch is over, as well. At least once I finish the mountain of paperwork regarding your case. Then I’ll be heading out west for a while. A matter surrounding a few odd streetlights calls to me. It’ll be nice to see the ocean again, too.

LUCY

No, I mean I’m LEAVING leaving. I don’t think I can deal with any more of this psychedelic bureaucracy stuff.

WREN, disheartened

Oh…I understand. What are you going to do?

LUCY

I’m honestly not sure. I’m tired Wren. The radio station is gone, the DLO is not for me. Don’t want to go back to the gas station or the Waffle House if it can be helped. I’ll be kissing my health insurance goodbye, regardless. Might try my hand at painting. If war criminals can find peace in it, maybe I can too.

WREN

That sounds lovely. I wish I could do the same. But the reality is that this is what I’m good at, this is where I feel at home: surrounded by things no one else sees, hearing things no one else should, dipping my toes into pools I’ve been warned not to disturb. I don’t really fit in elsewhere, you know? I don’t have a community. Too weird for queer spaces, too queer for weird spaces. It is what it is. Maybe I’ll have better luck finding commonality outside the midwest.

LUCY

I sure hope so. Well, good luck to you, then. And thank you. You helped me find my way out of the dark. Find myself. You could’ve given up anytime, but you didn’t. You put your hand out even after I bit it. Metaphorically speaking.

WREN

Think nothing of it. After all, we have to stick together if we want to continue onward. It’s a dangerous world for us at the best of times, and we are not in the best of times.

LUCY

True enough. By the way, I got these for you. To thank you. Even after all this, I don’t know you that well, so I made an educated guess. Hope you like flowers.

A silent moment passes.

WREN

What a lovely gesture. Say, Lucy: d-do you have any plans this evening? I was considering stopping by the Song Bird one last time. A little drink, a little song, a little dance. Would you like to join me? After what we went through, I feel like I should make more of an effort. To put myself out there, to make friends. I can show you around if you’ve never been. And maybe we could take some time to finally get acquainted.

LUCY, hesitant

Oh. Um, that’s mighty nice of you, but I ought to skip this one. I’ve got to have my cubicle cleared out by 5, and I…well, I wouldn’t want to impose on your good time.

WREN, disappointed

I see. Then best wishes to you, and I hope we meet again someday under more auspicious circumstances.

LUCY

...you too. Stay safe out there, Wren.

WREN

And you stay you, Lucy.

Wren steps away from the desk. Another moment passes. Then Lucy drops the box on the desk.

LUCY

H-hey Wren! You know what, to hell with this. I’m done wasting my time dithering: let’s dance. Let’s sing. Let’s pretend things are normal for a couple hours. I’m buying. What’ll you have?

WREN

Corpse Reviver number two.

LUCY

Do…do they serve absinthe there?

WREN

As if I’d patronize a bar that didn’t.

LUCY

Fair enough. But you’re not allowed to laugh when I whiff the high note in Life on Mars.

WREN

I wouldn’t dream of it.

LUCY

To the Song Bird it is.

Outro music begins, seems like the end of the episode. All is resolved. But the music eventually fades to an eerie drone.

LUCY, cautious

Hey, Wren.

WREN

Yes?

LUCY, with some fear

...we’re still here.

WREN

Yes, I won’t be leaving until next week.

LUCY, anxious

Well, I just thought…we finished what we started, didn’t we? We’re back at the office, the Boss is gone, the shadows are free. You took a bow, the curtains closed, you got you roses. This should be it. Why are we still here?

WREN

Of course we’re here, we haven’t left yet. Are we taking the bus to the Song Bird or should I drive?

LUCY

No, no. I just. I feel like something is…When you started this job, did they tell you much about it? Why we were doing any of this cataloging and recording?

WREN

Not particularly, no. I investigated the matter on my own, but I was stonewalled at every turn.

LUCY

Same with me. And do you know who hired you in the first place?

WREN

What are you getting at? No, I don’t remember his name. It’s been a while.

LUCY, with growing concern

Neither do I. Now that I think about it, I’m having a hard time remembering when I started working for the office.

WREN, concerned for LUCY

Lucy, are you all right? Do you feel light-headed? Just take a breath. Remember that odd radio station I told you about? The drone of the astral plane? Tune into that.

LUCY, now starting to panic

I'm forgetting something. Something big. Wren, tell me this: how did we get here? Back to the office, I mean. Literally.

WREN

I…we walked from the parking lot…right?

LUCY

Maybe. But are you sure? You’re not, are you. You’re not sure how we got back. You’re not sure because…because nobody saw it.

WREN, trying to help

I’m not sure I follow. Lucy, you’re sweating. Here, sit down.

A chair is pushed back, squeaking on wood.

LUCY, making a terrible realization

No. I need to think. This is like…deja vu. ‘Now she walks through her sunken dream to the seat with the clearest view.’ Wren I…I think I’ve seen this before.

WREN

Wait. What do you mean?. How could you have...Oh my god. I think we…I think I miscalculated. There was an…unexpected variable in my equation. A remainder. I should have seen this sooner, how did I miss it? This anomaly…It vexes my thesis. Damn it all. I should have seen this. Not now.

LUCY, feeling impending doom

The man under the stage. He’s the one doing all this.

WREN

“All the nightmares came today, and it looks as though they’re here to stay.” There must be so many. Like a winter morning full of constellations. It’s almost beautiful.

Lucy, I know this may sound like a joke, but I promise you I am deadly serious. This is vitally important, perhaps the most important question I’ve ever asked in my life. I want your full attention, ignore everything else. Look me in the eyes. Feel my hands. We’re still here. Now tell me: what do I look like?

LUCY, realizing there’s nothing to see

Wh...Wait, I…I can’t…

WREN

Please…let us–

The scene instantly changes to the shore of Lake Erie. A man is casting his line into the cold water. The line goes taut, reeling begins. The fisherman has caught something big. A heavy object is pulled ashore.

LOST FISHERMAN:

Now I am speaking to you as in a dream. I told you that when you saw me again, it would all be over. And that when I came, you would not be ready. That reality is but a veil, a scent on the breeze. So easily dismissed if you know how. It’s the dream that lingers. It’s the nightmare you still remember.

Now, I want you to think real hard on what I’m about to ask you: What’s my name? What were you doing before you heard this message? Now look at the clock. Can you read it?

What time is it?”

An engine sputters to life and roars.

THE END

DLO 18: HONEYBEE

7 februari 2022 | 23 min

Wren has a chat and descends into the dark. Liz gathers allies for a revolt. Major thanks to the MVPs of this episode: Rae Lundberg as Shadow, Jess Syratt as Liz, and Nathan from the Storage Papers as the Director.

(CWs, mild spoilers: fire, death, body horror, distorted voices and faces, static, dripping noises)

Transcripts available at somewhereohio.com

Apologies for the delay!

TRANSCRIPT:

*Fizzling Boss tones*

*boss tones coagulate into a voice*

BOSS: “Because I needed you alive long enough for us to talk.”

WREN, barely conscious: “wh-what? Where…”

WREN: Drops of frigid water pelted my forehead, stirring me from the astral plane. Above me was a whitewashed ceiling, stone walls curving in a circle like a shackle. I wasn’t restrained, however. I sat upright on crossed legs. Someone had been speaking just then, right?

WREN: “Is someone there?”

BOSS: “Ah, good, you are awake. I was a tad worried the furball out there hit you too hard.”

The curdled voice had to be coming from…somewhere, but it felt like it was all around me, under me, seeping into my hair and nails. The impact of the sheer cold of this place finally hit me as my head stopped spinning. I sat hunched for a moment before responding.

WREN: “Boss? I-is that you? How did you–”

BOSS: “I live in the wires, creep through static, remember? And your friend out there is about 50% wires, give or take. It’ll be fine once its circuits or whatever they have reboot. But that thing isn’t what I’m interested in. I brought you here to talk. So let’s hop to it.”

WREN: “What do you want me to say? I’m sorry for leaving? For trying to help you?”

BOSS: “Lucy. I want to talk about Lucy. See, Ever since our phone call, I’ve been…unsettled. Now that I’ve always been the boss, I have near unlimited knowledge of the DLO, of the things around me, but still no sign of Lucy. That bothers me.”

I warily stood up and looked around the frozen lighthouse. Long icicles hung from the ceiling–floor? whichever--dripping and freezing once more on the ground. The whole interior was covered in a thin icy sheen. No sign of Conw–er, the boss. I needed to find where this voice was coming from, but I needed time. I’d have to string him along for a bit and hope his confidence would play against him.

WREN: “Okay, then. Let’s talk Lucy. But first, there are some things I want to know. I’ve heard about some sort of machine salvaged from the lakebed. What is it?”

BOSS: “Might as well indulge the little worker bees in a bit of honey while they can still taste it. Very well, Wren.”

As he spoke, I snuck around the perimeter of the dark tower, listening for any changes in directional sound.

BOSS: “That machine is what made this place, made me real. It shepherded a new era for this state. Sure a few people lost a job or two, a few houses demolished, a few forests burned down, but it made way for industry, for growth. For potential. You shouldn’t blame this engine for your troubles: it’s people that run it. Without us, it’s just a hunk of junk. But with our hand on the till, we can remake the world. You’re stuck in the old ways, Wren. You’re a dinosaur, flailing in the tar, and I am the good god above, shaking my head.

Yes, this little engine can be dangerous, if you can’t handle the power. Kenji couldn’t. Look what happened to him. I could handle it, and here we are.

Speaking of power, don’t think I don’t know about the little coup attempt you’re plotting with some of my…former associates. It won’t work. As soon as we’re done here, I’m crushing your little salt and feeding her to the engine. Then it’s back to business.”

I should have known he’d know. But just because he knew what was happening didn’t mean he could stop it. If all went well on Liz’s side, it would be many hundreds against one. Those are decent odds in my ledger. I just needed a bit more time.

WREN: “So this ‘lucid engine’ really runs on human misery. It carved its way across the midwest, burning through the souls of workers, flattening towns, setting forests ablaze, bringing nightmares to life. But it’s our touch that makes it glow, our will that drives its whips and chains. Is that right? A conduit for economic malice?

You know you weren’t always like this. I’ve heard your earlier memos. You were kind, artistic, even funny sometimes, I must grudgingly admit. I trusted you.

I want to believe that person is still in you somewhere, trapped among the paperwork and oil. If it is, I intend to find that person, and bring them back. If it is not, I don’t intend to show any mercy.”

BOSS: “You sure say a whole hell of a lot and say a whole lot of nothing, huh little bee?”

I found no hints to the direction of his voice, but I did discover a narrow staircase winding down to the top of the lighthouse.

BOSS: “I believe it’s your turn now, Wren. Where is Lucy?”

WREN: “I’ll be honest with you: I don’t know. I encountered her at a waffle house at the end of the world. But she didn’t talk to me.”BOSS: “Well…no, that can’t be right. I was…No. No. NO. You’re not going to play with my mind like he did. Said I wasn’t real. You’re talking to me right now! Real as real gets.”

WREN: “You sound unfocused, boss. Tell me this: what’s your full name? How old are you? I’m Wren Crawford, nonbinary claims adjuster born November 1st, 1998 in Illinois. My favorite color is silver, I love driving at night with the windows down, and I hate pineapple.

How about you? No easy answer? You think much too literally, Boss. Of course, ‘real’ can mean extant, physically in the world. But it has many other meanings, too. Genuine, authentic. You may be here, but you’re not authentic. You are a fiction.”

I had inched my way to the stairs as I spoke. Before I could take the first step, he noticed where I was headed.

BOSS: “Whoa, whoa whoa, hold on now, hoss. Sorry to disappoint you, but what you’re looking for ain’t down there. That’s just the DLO’s vault. All you’re gonna find there are dusty old letters.

You’ve shown a lot of grit to even get here, Wren, a good deal of stick-to-it-iveness. You’re bright, hardworking, got a keen eye. You shouldn’t waste your life scrounging around in the dark. I’m a compassionate leader, I recognize potential when I see it. So to make your trip worthwhile, I’ve got an offer for you.

I could use someone else under my wing. A right hand, so to speak. Someone to watch over the warehouses and offices while I’m away on executive duties. You would have your own office–with a window!--your own assistants, access to all the documents you could want. You could escape the life of the worker bee. You could be the Supervisor, Wren. A damn good one. Wealthy, to boot.”

WREN: “In my time, I’ve come to find that wealth acts like a poison. The more concentrated it is in one host, the more dangerous it becomes. But dilute it among many and it’s harmless, or as with a serpent’s venom, a vital part of its own antivenom. It should be the sweet fruits picked from trees we planted ourselves. I don’t want your poison apples.”

I stood at the precipice of a yawning mouth to hell. One more step and I could never go back.

WREN: “Sorry, Boss, I’m no insect. I am a hawk.”

My foot hit the metal stair, and the world above went dark.

***

LIZ: “Suuure, just round up some shadows and commit arson, Liz. This is a perfectly normal thing people say all the time, Liz. Well, no time like the present, I guess.

Hey, uhhh, you at the desk! What’s your name?

*Harsh buzzing and static emanate from the shadow*

LIZ: “All right, forget you then. Stapler dude, with the cool glasses. My guy, what are you up to?”

*more unwelcoming noise*

LIZ: “This isn’t working. How was that other shadow able to talk to me?”

SHADOW: “I’m not sure, how can you talk? You’re a shadow, too.”

LIZ: “Christ, you’re still here?”

SHADOW, gently: “You needed someone to talk to.”

LIZ: *pause, sigh* “Sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound so…”

SHADOW: “Hostile?”

LIZ: “Right. There’s just a lot going on right now. I keep thinking I’ll see her here somewhere. I can almost feel her nearby. But then I turn around and it’s all gone, just a puff of smoke, sifting through my fingers like sand.

I just want to be back at our apartment, building a little house in the sims together. Pretending that someday WE could own a house. I need to find her before we get out of here. IF we get out of here.”

SHADOW: “And I need to make sure that thing in the middle is taken down.”

LIZ: “Well we’ve both got something to do then. I wonder…Do you think that having purpose makes here us…tangible?

SHADOW: “Makes about as much sense as anything else that’s happened to me in the last 24 hours.”

LIZ: “Ever read any Sartre?”

SHADOW: “No.”

LIZ: “Me neither. But if his stuff’s anything like Groundhog Day, it’s about how we’re defined by what we do, not who we are. Making the choice to continue in the mouth of the void. We have goals, those goals give us meaning, that meaning gives us solidarity. Err, solidity.

SHADOW: “Then all we have to do is remind these people there’s more to the world than this office. Give them something else to live for.”

LIZ, speaking to the room: “All right, listen up, folks. You’ve been working, what, Eight? Nine hundred hours? With no break? Do you even know what you’re doing, or why you’re doing it?

Look at me, I’m not glued to a desk, grumbling and sneering at everyone trying to be nice to me. I’m free! No boss to tell me what to do. Come on, you can’t tell me you actually like your boss. What’s more American than hating your boss? You in front, yeah I know you think he’s a real pissbaby.”

SHADOW, whispering: “I hope you know where this is going, because we’ve got a lot of eyes on us.”

LIZ: “Good! I want them to see. There’s got to be some part of you that knows this office is busted, this state is busted. Hell, this whole damn system’s gone busto. You’re all toiling away down here in the dark for someone that doesn’t even know your name. Not to mention the giant column of flesh. That has to be an OSHA violation. And these folders on the floor–serious fire hazard. Do you even get sick leave?”

SHADOW: “More are listening. Keep going!”

LIZ: “Are we not meant to be free? To see the sun with our own eyes? To be entitled to the spoils of our own labor?

Have you all become ants, mindless cogs to be spun, or does some sliver of you yet remain human? Can none of you work up the courage to hold on to that sliver of humanity?

Lay down your tools and come with me. Then you’ll find your answer.

Maybe you can go home again. Maybe we’ll meet on the other side. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll get to kick the guy who did all this in the teeth.

Shadows of the cave unite, you have nothing to lose but your chain letters!”

***

WREN: “Wow, did you really come up with all that on the spot?”

LIZ: “I may have been taking some poetic license with what happened near the end, but you get the gist.”

WREN: “Okay…then what happened?”

***

LIZ: Many of the shadows dropped their papers and stamps, littering the floor with office trash, and stood on desks with me. Some shades remained hard at work. They buried their faces in their books. I don’t think those shadows wanted to be helped. I think they were happy being pawns in the DLO’s game. I only hope they’ll find peace some day.

I hopped down from the desk to be among the shadows. We gathered on one side of the massive file cabinet and started pushing. It didn’t budge much at first, seeing as it was about 60 feet high. The tower of tissue noticed what we were doing, and sent some dark matter assassins our way. But more and more shades joined our cause, and the wall of drawers started to tip under our collective strength. It fell toward the tower in the center of the room. An enormous tongue shot out from the tower, halting the fall of the cabinets. I shouted for any stragglers to join up with us before it was too late. Then we did what you said to do.

The friendly shadow I’d been talking to found a small space heater at one of the abandoned desks. She set it down next to the base of the giant leaning cabinet and switched the heater on. I opened a few of the lower drawers, which spilled their contents onto the floor beside the heater. A big pile of dry paper plus an unsupervised space heater…You can imagine what happened next. And you can imagine the smell, too, as the paper and flesh were licked by the flames.

We stood in front of the burning tower for just a minute, outlined in the dark by a ring of righteous flame.

And then with our shadowy friends, we left the way we came.

Which is to say: through a series of unexpected and inexplicable moves and feelings that I can’t recall. And then we were in the cold.

***

WREN: I prowled down deep into the guts of the wretched lighthouse. Each footfall was imbued with growing dread. I descended into the darkness for some time, passing a grim scullery and fetid living quarters, until a dim light and faint roar made their presence known. As I continued, the light and sound grew stronger, and then came the smell: scorched oil and exhaust. Illusory hellfire overwhelmed my senses until at last my boots made contact with the lighthouse floor.

The circular room was small, only just wide enough for a small walkway around the lamp in the center. There was a door across the way, so I started to work my way around the lens. But I quickly realized that in the center of this lighthouse was not a light. Instead, there was a horrific chunk of alien steel, like quicksilver in one corner and immovable iron cubes in another. It had pipes running up and down its sides, spouting haze into the tiny chamber. This is what had been making the dizzying light and sound.

I felt a pit open in my stomach at the moment of recognition. I was terrified and thrilled in equal measure. I, much like Conway, had been unwittingly trailing this engine. This room felt more like a shrine than a beacon, a place of worship for a dead metal messiah. White fire burbled into the air, and the rattling hum of the engine grew as I approached. I was drawn to run my fingers along its cool surface, but I restrained myself, and recalled what had happened to the others who came in contact with the engine.

I knew not where it came from and probably never would, so I looked at rather teleologically. I whispered to myself: “What does this thing DO? What is its purpose?”

And I received an unexpected answer.

BOSS: “It can make your dreams come to life.”

I crept around the edge of the machine to confirm my horrible suspicion. This is indeed where his voice had been coming from, but not in the way I expected.

On the other side of this nightmare device was a face–Conway’s face–stretched across its surface beyond the point of possibility. It spanned maybe three feet across, skin and metal fused and tangled, a simulacrum of a sick rubber mask pulled taut. The large eyes were dull and hazy, roving aimlessly. The distended mouth hung open, through which I could see the burning fire within.

My autonomic nervous system kicked in, and unfortunately my fight and flight instincts often exert equal and opposite force, leaving me frozen in place. I couldn’t move, and could barely make a noise.

WREN: “C-conway…is that?” I whispered through my pale lips.

The cloudy eyes rolled without clear direction, angrily searching for the source of my voice. The engine rumbled and spit embers, and then the mouth of the Conway mask moved slowly, with some effort.

BOSS, stuttering and glitching: “Please, call me Boss. I’m your superior after all. Unless you’re quitting now.”

WREN: “I already…quit. Boss, you…you’re not…this isn’t right. This isn’t…you.”

BOSS: “Of course it’s me. I am fire. I am steel. I am the Boss.”

WREN: “You weren’t always like this. Do you remember playing in the woods? Studying art?”

The voice using his face like a puppet grew harsher, more mechanical.

BOSS: “Your conjecture interests me not, insect. I am the standard. I am the control. I am the Boss.”

WREN: “I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’m not stopping now. I’m going into the vault, and I’m going to bring you back with me. The real you. Just keep…breathing, if that’s a thing you still do. It’s not over yet.”

I tore my eyes away from the shining abyss and passed through the door across from the engine. As it closed behind me, the sound and heat from the machine dissipated, and I was once again on my own in a dark, quiet cave. I could hear water drip from stalagmites onto the damp stone ground. My phone had just enough battery left to cast its light across the rock, revealing hundreds of boxes and bags, all stuffed to the brim with letters, packages, objects. A chef’s knife, a game cartridge, cassettes unspooling their magnetic tape through dirty puddles. All things forgotten but not lost.

I was finally in the Vault of the Dead Letter Office of Aisling, Ohio.

***

CONWAY: “Yeah, good to meet you. *ow* Strong handshake you got there. So this is still my first week, what did he say I should do with the ones that uhh fit the criteria?”

DIRECTOR: “The Boss says to make a note of it, send the memo to your supervisor, and place the letter or object in the shaft to the vault.”

CONWAY: “Right. Now pardon me if this sounds a little funny, but who is my supervisor? Where’s this vault?”

DIRECTOR: “At present, you don’t need to know any of that. Just follow the steps exactly as prescribed.”

CONWAY: “Aw hell, you’re the ones giving me health insurance, I’m not dumb enough to question that. So you got it, sir.”

DIRECTOR: “Good to hear. You know how to keep a secret, right? Because at this agency, we value our privacy. We don’t need your average citizens finding out what we do. So this vault is where we send all evidence that we, and the things we handle, exist. You don’t want to go in there. Could be dangerous. It’s best that it’s forgotten. You understand?

CONWAY: “Not really, but I promise I won’t go in there. Wherever ‘there’ is.”

DIRECTOR: “Oh and one more thing: you like baseball, Mr. Conway?”

CONWAY: “Sure, well enough. And please, call me–”

*STATIC*

CREDITS

Hey everybody, it’s your host here with just a few brief announcements and shoutouts. So this is the penultimate episode. The next episode will be out soon and that will be the finale of the series, or at least the series as it exists now. I’m sure I’ll make more at some point, but it’s not going to be these characters, it’s not going to be this story, it’s going to be a whole different thing. So I hope you still enjoy it and I will certainly enjoy my break.

I want to thank everybody who’s listened so far, or left reviews or subscribed or shared the show. It really helps and it means the world to me.

And without further, I’d love to give a shoutout to our lovely patrons:

Carriers Alien Octopus, BertBert, Feather, Flo, and Jessica.

Receiving Clerks Argent Lune, Elena, Ezra, Gadz, Jennifer, Kidcha, Spicy Nigel, Patricia, Paul, and Wheezy and Beaker.

Merch Update

22 januari 2022 | 1 min

DLO 17: MIMIC

3 januari 2022 | 32 min

Wren visits the town of their dreams. A man finds a doll that looks just like him. Featuring Jess Syratt of Nowhere, On Air as Liz.

(CWs, some spoilers: alcohol, possible murder, body horror, derealization, dysphoria?, blood, insects)

CONWAY: Sometimes a drop of water is all it takes for rust to form. A single grain of sand to gum up the gears. One thought to plant to the seed of doubt.

Sometimes we don’t want to think that thought, so it festers, mold in our minds. We wear masks, build whole cities–empires–just to obscure that one thought. It can drive some people to madness, others to enlightenment.

What that thought is I’ll leave up to you. I’m not here to give you answers. I’m here to tell you what happened. The facts, as I see them.

Despite my power and wealth, something stung me. Ants crawling on my skin, salt in my wound. Defection among the ranks. And something else, too. A feeling that something wasn’t right. That I wasn’t right. That something had gone wrong somewhere along the line, but I couldn't remember what.

You can’t usually go back and fix the past, so what you’ve got left is thought, grains of sand, drops of water. Masks. What happens if the mask takes over, starts to be more real than the face underneath? And if you’re a mask, who’s wearing you?

Was it too late for me to take it off? Was I really…me? Or was I just what I thought I should be? Was I in the cave, or in the tower?

Wren, can you see my face? Or do you see the mask?

***

The first thing I noticed was the fog. Wisps of light gray curling and drifting above the tall grass that framed the narrow road. It wasn’t the fog itself that gave me pause, it was the movement. I hadn’t seen anything outside of my control move at all these past 3 days.

The yellow cones of the car’s headlights illuminated a sign, bent and scored by weather and age: “WELCOME TO AISLING, THE TOWN OF YOUR DREAMS. POPULATION–” I couldn’t read the rest: rust and time had swallowed the populace of this place.

Though there was movement here, it was nearly silent and empty. No crickets, no birds, no rumbling engines or hushed voices. I suddenly felt very exposed in my car. I pulled off into the dewy grass and got out. I took the flashlight and jacket out of my emergency kit in the trunk and ventured into the haze.

As I drew nearer, a cluster of short buildings emerged from the mist, and I could smell the lake on the air. Its gentle lapping barely pierced the foggy aura surrounding the town. The steady beam from my flashlight guided me as best it could, given the conditions.

The second thing I noticed was the cold. The temperature dropped precipitously as I crept through the barren streets. I focused the flashlight between my heavy puffs of breath onto the nearby houses. Every home along this road was encased in hanging ice, sheets of gray vacuum sealed to the facades, dripping at the edges in a thousand angry fangs. The frozen tendrils hanging from every surface mimicked alien architecture: these were no longer houses, they were noneuclidean sculptures hauled from the deep itself, symbols of tentacled things unseen and unspoken dwelling miles below the surface. Spiraling, bubbling cathedrals dedicated to the worship of beings our species had forgotten, or chose not to remember. There is a difference. One in particular near the shore stood elevated on a dock, now smothered in sharp icicles. There it sat hunched before the lake like a withered king on a throne, now too thin for his hanging robes. All he can do is watch as his kingdom melts away.

The third thing I noticed was whistling. As I explored the town further, I could make out a faint ethereal tune floating on the air. I followed it, and it grew in volume as I neared the lake. Out on the frozen piers stood a man in an orange vest, human alone amongst the jaws of ice, casting his line into what had to be frozen lake water.

I shone my flashlight his direction, which made him pause. His shoulders tensed and the line went slack. He slowly turned to face me from across the sculpted pier.

I couldn’t see his face. Or maybe he didn’t have a face. He waved at me, then pointed to my left. There in the frigid alien landscape was a warm glow. Incandescent light poured through windows thick with condensation. I heard voices carry across the dense atmosphere, quiet conversations, glasses clinking, laughing. I turned to thank this kind fisherman, but he was gone.

Shivering and nose running, I hopped along toward the bar. Even if this was somehow a trap, at least I’d die warm. I could feel the heat and light radiating from the building. It stood out so sharply from the rest of the town. I pushed the door with my shoulder and it swung open.

Instead of being greeted by central heating and stale beer, I was met with more ice. The door to this place must have been left open during whatever had affected the rest of the town. Ice hung from the ceiling, the bar, the rough stools. The walls were coated with translucent spears. The sole artifact spared from the ice was a black rotary phone, sitting in the center of the bar’s counter.

A sharp bell rang out from bar, through the town. I jumped, I’ll admit it. I was startled. It rang again, and I turned the phone around to see how they managed to wire it up in this place. Of course, there were no wires. No phone line. Simply a disconnected phone ringing in a frozen town that shouldn’t exist. Given the circumstances, I presumed the call was for me.

***

WREN: “H-hello?”LF: “Weeelll, now you’ve stepped in it, huh?”

WREN: “What do you mean? Who is this?”

LF: “Just a fisherman angling for a bite. And what I mean is you’ve crossed over. Welcome to the unwaking world. I’m sure you’ve got questions, but I can only answer three, and it looks like you’ve used two. So I’d watch my words, if I were you.”

WREN: “I see. Well, instead of asking questions, I’ll request that you tell me about this place.”

LF: “Clever work. Now this used to be a big lumber town. Imports and shipping. Real nice little place across the lake from canada. Town was run by an old robber baron’s kid, scion of the Van Leer family. Had this funny notion there was something special about this lake and boy, was he right in all the wrong ways.

WREN: “Maybe if you weren’t arbitrarily governed by genie rules, I’d ask you more about this town’s history and this Van Leer person.”LF: “As well you might. Then sometime round 1918 was when it all went to hell. This Van Leer fella put together a team to dredge the lake. Lookin for a shipwreck from years back he said had some kind of vast wealth in it. The Oneiros. He even went in himself in his diving dress. I’ll spare you the guessing as to whether he found that shipwreck. He did. And more.

The crew dragged this massive crate from its grave in the muck and pulled it into the center of town. Took 4 men stout and true to get it open. Inside was a mass of iron, smooth in some parts and sharp in others, pipes and wheels gone wrong, like a steam engine built by a madman. Van Leer had found his treasure. It’s said that the next night, he went out and tried to start this wicked machine. Wouldn’t burn coal or wood, though. Needed something with more…vitality. So he fed its dark cravings with blood.

The engine roared and huffed black smoke. This activity must have stirred something in the water, because soon a white maiden flanked by hideous beasts visited the town. Nobody’s quite sure what came of Van Leer or the rest of the people here. Place has been frozen since. Or so the story goes.

Now I’m not sure how much of that is true, but I have seen the drag marks. You can follow them if that sick engine is what you’re looking for.

WREN: “Oh, my.”

LF: “‘Oh my’ puts it mildly. Oh and Wren, I’ve got a warning: you’re in danger.

WREN: “Danger?”

LF: “I’ll pretend there wasn’t a question mark at the end of that sentence. You’re real, Wren, the only real thing here, and that puts you in a pickle. The last real person here was a man named Kenji, and I assume you heard what happened to him.

WREN: “Oh, my…”

LF: So that’s why I had to call you. To let you know that he knows you’re here, and his dark messengers are coming for you the second you step out of this bar. The frozen horrors of this town have started to thaw. Hope you can run, kid.”

WREN: “Oh…fuck.”

LF: “Now you’re getting it. Well, I best be lettin ya go…”WREN: “Wait! I still have a question left. Where’s Conway?”

LF: “Which one?”WREN: “huh?”

LF: “That Van Leer kid, name was Conway, too.”

WREN: “Two Conways.”

LF: “Sort of. Before you brave the cold again, let me tell you a story…”

****

NARRATOR: Joe had always been a bit of an odd guy. A nice guy, but a little hard to live with. Real picky about certain stuff–liked to have stuff just so–had a hard time letting go of grudges, and usually felt that the people around him didn’t really care for him. He had a small group of friends he’d known since college that he figured were accustomed to his predilections. They sure all had their own, as everyone does. But this didn’t stop the thoughts from creeping in. The thought that maybe he didn’t belong, that they’d rather he disappear.

After living with friends for years, he decided it would be easier to live alone. Now moving is stressful, even under normal circumstances. For Joe, it was a nightmare. How to box everything so that it doesn’t mix rooms, split functions, lose pieces. Trying to find someone to help lift furniture that won’t resent you. Picking an apartment in the first place.

Joe moved in most of his belongings, but found this apartment a bit smaller than his last. This meant some boxes had to go in the basement. Joe carried a stack of books in a laundry basket down the stairs, and nearly dropped it on his foot when he came across something he hadn’t expected. Below his kitchen was a large crate, nearly as tall as the basement ceiling, with a scribbled note that read “do not open.”

Joe lasted about 3 weeks before he opened the crate. The best tool he had for the job was a screwdriver and he was too stubborn to get a crowbar, so it took him a while to pry the planks up, but eventually they splintered. The tiny bit of light leaking in from upstairs illuminated the interior, and made visible the shape of a man. Joe recoiled and dropped the screwdriver bouncing across the cement floor. He reeled backward and slammed into the stairs behind him. He sat with his hand over his mouth for a good minute, breath caught in his chest, staring at the body inside the box. There was no movement. Surely dead, after all this time in a sealed container, he thought. Should he call the cops? The FBI? The president? He leaned a bit closer and finally took a breath. No, can’t be a corpse: he could only smell the freshly torn pine of the box and the usual basement mildew. Not a whiff of rot.

He fished his phone out of his pocket and switched on the flashlight. Sitting inside the box was a life sized doll. A mannequin of sorts. Joe stalked over to the box and hesitantly turned the head toward him. Staring back at him in the stark light was a startlingly familiar face. Joe’s face. His own damn face, in molded and painted plastic and silicone and whatever the hell else. He instinctively pushed the doll away. It landed naked and cold in the sawdust and packing. Not only did it have his face; it was his height, his build, his hair. This couldn’t have been a coincidence. It was supposed to be him.

He felt sick to his stomach, dizzy with questions flooding his mind. The most pressing of which wasn’t who or how, but why. Why would someone make this? Why would someone leave this effigy here?

His landlord had no idea what he was talking about, and didn’t want to make the drive up from Cinci to look at a box. He sat with this doll for a time, both leaning against their respective walls, both silent. Then Joe piled the splintered planks up, trying to seal the doll–mannequin, whatever it was–back in its container. He at least managed to cover enough of it that he didn’t have to see it from the stairs.

Joe could hardly sleep that night, and his dreams were fitful and strange. He’d be sitting in a small, dark room, unable to escape. Then came a light, and the man who stole his face. Then he’d wake up.

Day after day, the events in Joe’s life only grew stranger. Joe felt a connection to this doll, a kinship, and an equal and opposite revulsion. He’d go down to check on it late at night when he couldn’t sleep. There he’d find pieces of wood stacked in places he’d swear he hadn’t left them. He’d hear footsteps in the dazed half-waking hours of the early morning. He’d find bags of chips that were lighter than he remembered. But he never saw it move. It was just a doll, after all.

Joe’s acquaintances found out about it (how long can you keep something this strange to yourself) and they were powerfully curious. Joe took them down, a few of his closest friends, to “meet” the doll, which he’d been calling Joseph. They were stunned at the similarity. Uncanny. So similar to Joe but not quite. And in his own house. They said it could easily be his twin if they didn’t know better. Lots of playful joking and laughing. He laughed along too, for a time.

The laughing stopped when he came home from work to find the doll standing in the corner of his kitchen, wearing one of his shirts. He called his friends in a flurry, asking around to see which of his them had pulled this awful prank. Not a soul would confess. A cruel trick, I’d say, to make someone think they’re losing their mind. He returned the shirt to his closet. He was determined to keep this thing under cover, so this time covered the box with a tarp. He figured his friends probably didn’t actually like him, were humoring him at events. That they were messing with him. It didn’t occur to him that none of his friends had a spare key to get inside his place.

Joe tried to carry on with his life, even put an ad online to get rid of the doll: FREE, LOCAL PICKUP ONLY. But there were no bites. By now, Joe’s lack of sleep was getting to him, and he was getting irritable, antisocial. When his friends texted him, he was snippy. He avoided calls and meetups.

He was trying to make dinner on a steamy midsummer night when he heard a thud downstairs. He hadn’t checked on the doll in some time, and for a moment wondered if he had an intruder. He grabbed a shovel from the porch and crept down to the basement.

In the cascading luminance from the open doorway, he saw the legs of the mannequin laying on the bare floor, covered in denim. A pair of his jeans. Joe was instantly furious, then that anger cooled to desperation. He begged his friends to stop whatever game they were playing. Said he didn’t care who was doing it, didn’t want a confession anymore, he only wanted it to stop. He’d leave them alone if they stopped. Still they claimed innocence.

Summer had come and gone, and Joe’s 30th birthday was fast approaching on the back of a biting winter, and while he wasn’t looking forward to getting older, he did find himself excited to see friends for the first time in months.

Derek had set up a whole party at his place. Drinks, music, cake, the works. Joe wanted everything to go right. He put on a nice shirt and pants, but when he reached for his favorite tie, he found the hanger empty. Ah, well, Joe thought, I’ll skip the tie. Maybe a bit formal for a birthday party anyway.

Surreal. That’s what it was. Uncanny.

Joe knocked on Derek’s door, who gave him an apprehensive look as he opened it. Surreal.

“Oh, hey Joe, uhh come on in,” Derek warily led Joe into the living room. Mid-2000s indie music scored the scene of friends and couples drinking, talking, laughing. And on the couch among his friends, wearing his favorite tie and nothing else, was the doll. They were chatting as if nothing was out of place. The mannequin even had a little controller in its hand for playing kart racing games. Sitting next to it was a girl Joe had been talking to for a few weeks. He thought this issue had been settled.

“What the hell is that thing doing here? I told you it wasn’t funny anymore.” Joe strained to keep his anger under control.

“Whoa watch it, man”

Joe stormed out of his own party. Derek looked around the room and issued an awkward shrug.

Joe sped home, gunning it down highway lanes dotted with circles of orange vapor glow. He crunched up the frosty grass slope to his door, and locked himself inside. Derek tried to reach out, but Joe wasn’t ready yet. This was a massive breach of trust.

A few days passed and Joe realized that he’d probably overreacted. His friends were probably trying to get a rise out of him. And even if they did genuinely hate him, they were the only friends he had. He texted Derek. They planned to meet at the coffee shop down the block so he could apologize and catch up.

Joe strolled down the crisp downtown streets toward the cafe. He stood on the corner across from the shop and took in thin air through his nose. Behind the cafe’s foggy window, he saw Derek, sitting at a table already. He smiled and took a step forward.. That’s when he saw that sitting across from Derek, in a striped shirt and slacks, was the doll. On the table in front of it was a full cup of coffee. It still wasn’t moving, it was just a doll after all, but Joe could see Derek’s lips moving.

This was too much. This wasn’t a joke anymore, this was hostile action. He could only be kicked so many times before he’d kick back. What were they thinking? Did they like the doll more than him? Why, because it wouldn’t make snide remarks, wouldn’t feel down, wouldn’t drink your beer and forget to replace it?

Joe needed rest badly. He had gotten some sleeping pills from his doctor at some point he couldn’t remember, but hesitated to take them before. Not so this time. Joe swallowed the pill and went into the kitchen.

He descended the basement stairs, holding the shovel from the porch. The tarp over the box was flipped up, and inside was the mannequin. Joe licked his dry lips and stepped lightly into the crate. He tapped the doll with the handle of the shovel. Nothing. He shouted at it. Nothing. It was just a doll, after all.

Then his phone rang. It was Derek.

DEREK: “Oh, uhh hey dude, I was wondering if…is Joe there?”

Joe’s face grew red. Embarrassment, anger, jealousy, fear, who can say which feeling specifically caused the break. He hung up and threw his phone across the concrete floor. Joe twisted the shovel’s handle around in his sweaty palms, then lifted the shovel high. He brought the sharp edge down directly on the doll’s head.

At this point, the drug took hold, and as the doll fell to the side, Joe collapsed against the wall and plunged into a deep, woozy sleep.

He hoisted the limp doll over his shoulder and dragged the heavy object upstairs. He wrapped it in an old area rug and stuffed it into his trunk.

He drove on in the frosty moonless night, down country roads outside the city, heading to the pine forest nearby. He was quivering, quiet. He kept checking the rearview mirror to see if he was being followed.

He passed a sheriff near the woods and a cold chill ran down his back. What if the sheriff pulled him over and checked the trunk? He was speeding a bit. But then again, he hadn’t actually done anything wrong, right? It was just a doll, after all.

He found a suitable spot and pulled off the road. Dripping rug and shovel in tow, he finally stepped into the woods.

The ground was hard, digging even harder. He was sweating and coughing as he dug a hole for the doll. His twin. His reflection. He dug until he physically couldn’t anymore, arms sore and lungs ablaze.

By now the sun was starting to cast its pink rays through the snowy branches. High conifers bowed in the breeze, shaking loose a dust of fine white into the air, which caught the milky morning light and shimmered in sapphire. The hole was barely deep enough for a body now, and the ground was too hard to dig further. He rolled the thing into the cold grave, then slowly covered it with dark soil.

It would be gone, finally, and he could live his life. His friends would be happy to see him again. No more jealousy, no more fear, no more worry. No longer burdened by the weight of his imposter. Everything was in its right place. He was free.

Even if that sheriff spotted the tire tracks in the fresh snow, followed the footprints down into the frozen woods. If he uncovered the freshly churned earth, and what was decomposing within. If sirens blared, a line of cruisers shining in the neon sunrise. If they checked his car and found the stained rug, brought him in and asked him a thousand questions, about his past, his friends, the bandaged gash on his head, he would still be free.

It was just a doll, after all.

CLICK

***

WREN: uhh, is someone still on the line?

LIZ, apprehensive: “Hey, uh, Wren? What does Conway look like?”

WREN, on the phone: “You know, I’m not sure I’ve ever heard him described. Hmm, dark hair, normal height I suppose, 28-36 years old?”

LIZ: “Sooo…not a towering column of flesh?”WREN: “....no?”

LIZ: “Got it. Well, that’s what’s here in the boardroom.”

WREN: “Board room??”LIZ: “It’s like this…bureaucratic nightmare cave. Probably 10 stories high, walls lined with filing cabinets floor to ceiling. Stacks of papers and folders everywhere, with more of those shadow things flipping through them and stamping pages.”

WREN: “Oh…that sounds bad.”LIZ: “And in the middle, surrounded by a bunch of empty chairs and desks, is this tower of skin and paperwork fused together. There are eyes and mouths all over it, just twisting, pulsing…like it’s breathing. Like this thing is a person, or a tumor imitating a person. What should I do?”

WREN: “It’s always been a game of facades, hasn’t it. Gather what shadows you can–you seem good at that–then leave. Whatever that is, it’s not Conway anymore, if it ever was. On your way out, burn whatever remains.”

CLICK

***

WREN: Immediately upon hanging up the phone, the town outside started to shift. I could hear water pooling under the gap under the bar’s door. Sloshing and groaning, crunching, far-off wailing carrying on the wind outside. “None of this is real, I’m what’s real,” I whispered to myself a few times, standing right beside the door. Of course, merely because something isn’t real doesn’t mean it can’t kill. It’s happened before. I stretched my left leg, then the right, and hopped up and down a few times to get the blood flowing. I hoped I could run, too.

The door flung open with more force than I’d intended. The slamming door reverberated throughout the town, once empty but not so anymore. The rows of anomalous buildings shook and rose. Unholy behemoths descended from their perches, writhing and dripping as they freed themselves from their stupor. The sound of the door alerted them to my presence. They slinked along the roads toward me, some still half encased in ice, dragging massive blocks of frozen terror in their wake. I couldn’t go home now, even if I wanted to. I planted my feet and took off full speed toward the dock.

Just my luck, only three steps in, I slipped and faceplanted into the stone below. My nose crunched and shards of ice dug into my skin, painting trails of red across my face and palms. I scrambled and clawed until I was on my feet. Hunched, bloodied, and soaking now, I came face to face with one of the awakened giants. Icicles still hung from its head, a wilted crown, its body bulky and strong. From the hole where it’s mouth should be, a long whiplike tongue unfurled. It darted toward the drops of blood running down my cheek. I wiped away the flowing blood and snot with my sleeve and skittered to the side. I saw an alleyway behind the beast. Narrow, empty, just wide enough I might sneak through it. The creature turned as I moved around its horrible frame, and from its spine sprouted many more tongues. They lashed at me, a hundred tiny blades. The tongues tore at my shirt and left slashes across my arm. They sliced and curled, but the beast couldn’t grab hold of me; the slush I was covered in kept me slippery. I darted down the alley.

A look over my shoulder revealed the creature leaning on its back, now carried by dozens of pink slavering tongues. It tried to follow where I had gone, but the alley was too narrow. Stuck between the two buildings, It let out a gurgling howl, like a psalm for drowned god. I briefly smirked. Then it began tearing at the wood and brick around it, and the fleeting moment of triumph vanished.

I kept moving, on and on the melting streets went, each rounded corner possibly harboring another death. The sky overhead was a crumpled sheet of tin, and the remaining houses seemed to lean inward around me, casting their spiky shadows over me as I ran.

I managed to escape the center of town and found myself at the lakeshore, dread mariners following in my wake. There, through my panting sweat and blood and dried tears I saw the tracks in the ground. My eyes followed the deep lines in the earth to what I had been looking for. There, floating in the misty air, impossibly suspended upside down, was the Lighthouse. The tower issued a distorted bellow and the shore was shrouded with fog. I could hear wet tendrils slapping close behind me.

I ran for the lighthouse. Its tip stood about 5 feet off the ground, the rotating lens nearly at my eye level. The beacon spun toward me as I approached, its dazzling light shining on me. I was instantly overcome with nausea. It was clear that whatever entity resided here didn’t want me any closer. The light was a nameless god here, and these were its charnel angels. I dropped to my knees under its watch, as the intense gaze of this tower soaked into me. I felt the skin on my bloodied hands and face burn and peel away from the bone like an orange rind. Static filled my head, and my body disintegrated.

But this was not my first rodeo, as they say. Unlike Conway, I’ve dealt with this static, with this withering glare, before. I took a deep breath and focused my thoughts. I imagined a radio, and on that projected radio was a dial. My spectral fingers reached out and turned the dial. I felt the astral station change and the static dissipate, replaced by the gentle plinking of piano keys. The fire on my flesh turned to tingling, and I realized my body had not actually been damaged, despite the pain.

This was enough to get me standing upright again, but forward progress was still slow; the full focus of the burning lens was still on me. The light had a physical presence that continually repelled me with every step. I was losing energy, and the blasphemous vermin behind me were slithering ever closer. A long, mucous tentacle skated over the ice and reached for my ankle.

The last thing I saw there in Aisling was a flash of brown fur. A blur of claws and hair leapt out of the haze and slammed into the malicious angel that had tried to grab at me. Talons ripped into a monstrous carapice. A pink light from the furry creature’s forehead sent the horrid bug flying ino the frigid water.

Why is something always swooping in at the last moment to save me? I'm not 12 anymore, I can legally drink now! I can handle myself. Well, maybe not in this situation, but usually I can. The furry creature turned its long neck my way, its face covered in synthetic brown hair, and I locked eyes with my one-time-nemesis, my friend, my deskmate, my savior.

Its yellow beak parted and it spoke.

“U-nye-way-loh-nee-way”

My eyelids grew heavy, my head spun, and I fell to the ground, unconscious.

“SLEEP.”

BONUS: BLOOM

19 december 2021 | 8 min

DLO 16: METAMORPHOSIS

6 december 2021 | 32 min

Wren takes a road trip. A divorcee spots an odd insect. Conway tries to shake a rock out of his shoe.

Featuring the voices of Nathan from Storage Papers (https://thestoragepapers.com), Jess Syratt from Nowhere, On Air (https://nowhereonairpodcast.weebly.com), and Rae Lundberg of The Night Post (https://nightpostpod.com/).

(CWs, mild spoilers: LOTS of insects, body horror, fire, car braking sound)

Transcript incoming, here's the rough script for now, which mostly follows the episode.

“Now let’s get to the weird stuff…”

WREN: We humans generally like stability. Predictability. We like to figure out patterns and stick with them. I think that’s why change can be so frightening for us. It throws the future--which once seemed so certain--into chaos. Anything could happen. We could be on the verge of destruction at any moment. But we could also be inches away from utopia. If you can learn to live with this change, this constantly revolting present, you just might make it out of the apocalypse with your sanity intact.

Or so that’s what I hoped. I had little else to count on. I tried to flow like water with the shifting tide. You can be the judge of how that all turned out. That’s why you’re here, right?

Pockets of shadows remained in the cave, about a dozen or so people, seemingly oblivious to the life outside. They toiled under The Boss’s directives, worked day and night for the Dead Letter Office. To what end, I couldn’t really say. Seemingly just to perpetuate the office itself. If I could show them the way out, maybe they would help me take on the Boss. One shadow, Liz, was receptive to my offer. She still had some kick left in her diminished form. Her girlfriend, though, was blind to the world, just a single atom in the bureaucratic monolith.

In Liz, I had someone on the inside. If she could go back and agitate from within the machine, we might stand a chance of turning a few more souls back to the light. It would be risky, though; if even one shade suspected outside forces were at work, they might alert the Boss. Even given all my experience with the paranormal and extranormal, I have no idea what would happen then. My gut feeling told me that facing the Boss prematurely would be...ill-advised.

If I wanted to find more of these shadows, I’d need to search through the dead mail, find the stories that might have caught Conway’s attention, and seek out their writers. The problem was that I had just walked out of my job, and I had a suspicion that if I showed back up unannounced, the Boss would take notice. Where, then, would I find these letters if not the office?

I’d need to find the place that Conway kept all of the clues. I’d need to find Aisling. I’d need to find the vault. Would anything be left in the old vault, or had the Boss already figured out my plan and purged it? Only one way to find out.

Yes, change can be terrifying. Yes, the future is in flux. But the scariest part is that the past can be made just as uncertain as the future. Memories fade, records burn, and witnesses pass on. Entire decades lost, cultures lost. Lessons unlearned. Mistakes repeated. If a place loses its history, how can its people know the present? Without a past, how can we make sense of the future? As a butterfly forgetting it was once a worm, who are we without who we were?

Driving through the clogged artery highways of the state was a challenge, given that time appeared to be at a standstill for most of the world.

If all the postcards and letters were to be believed, I was looking for a lakeside town. Somewhere along the Erie was a town full of shadows, a place haunted by its own history. And within that town was a lighthouse. This lighthouse was my metaphorical beacon. I kept the postcard printed with its image folded and tucked into my pocket. It was among the few items I took with me on this road trip: a cassette player with some of Conway’s old tapes and a furry little friend also jostled around in a cardboard box on the passenger seat. I couldn’t just leave the poor thing in the office after all we’d seen.

The morning air was silent and stiff, only the sound of my rumbling engine accompanied the pink rays glancing off rows of glass and steel. I turned the stereo’s knob, but the radio was entirely dead air. I loaded up one of the tapes to see if it would be of any help.

The enormous hand still hung overhead like the executioner’s ax. What was our crime, Conway? What did we let ourselves forget?

*on tape* OLD INTRO MUSIC

This is Conway, receiving clerk for the Dead Letter Office of Aisling, Ohio, processing the national dead mail backlog. The following audio recording will serve as an internal memo strictly for archival purposes and should be considered confidential. Need I remind anyone: public release of this or any confidential material from the DLO is a felony. Some names and places have been censored for the protection of the public.

Dead letter 11919. An SD card found in a condemned building. The house caught fire in fall of 2011, but card was mysteriously undamaged. The fire department contacted one of our carriers, who brought it back to the office for investigation. The contents of the SD card are as follows.

*off tape

A month after my divorce I took up photography. Call it a midlife crisis if you want. I needed something to keep my mind occupied now that I was perpetually alone again, and a camera is a hell of a lot cheaper than a sports car. Photography’s really for lonely hearts; you’re by yourself, but surrounded by people. You watch them through the lens, feed on their fleeting touches. I threw myself into it fully without thinking too much, like I do with just about everything. Like I did with her.

Three months after the divorce, I went to the butterfly house. To see things so wet and new enter the world, so hopeful, was healthier projecting my turmoil onto the world around me. The insects’ colorful wings rendered through the lens like stained glass, and there was so much variety. I started shooting at the conservatory whenever I could, and gleaned a lot about butterflies in the process.

Monarch butterflies, Danaus plexippus, migrate long distances, from the great lakes to the gulf, then come back again when the weather warms up. How they remember the path back home, no one’s quite sure. Almost romantic. On the other end of the spectrum, some moths only live for a week. Actias luna don’t eat anything during their brief week of existence, because they can’t: their mouths are vestigial. Instead, they rely on what they ate in their larval state to sustain them throughout their lives. They eat, change, mate, and die. Also kind of romantic. In a sense.

Six months after the divorce is when I saw it. The reason for this video.

I was kneeling in front of a coneflower, Echinacea purpurea, waiting for one of the little powdery things to alight on a petal. A kid running through the conservatory was scaring off most of my subjects, but I could be patient. What else did I have going on in my life? My friends were mostly married and mostly busy, my family...well, I’d rather not go there. So I waited. Crouched, holding the hefty camera, lens focused, my mind was sharp but my body was getting stiff. I was about to call the day a wash when something interesting came into view.

A large butterfly landed on the purple flower. Its folded wings were pure ashy black, and it looked sharper than the objects around it. This one had a sort of presence, a portentous aura, as if the events of the world waited on every flap of its wing.

In my time here, I’d never seen anything like it. It held my attention in a vice, like it wasn’t a bug at all, but a treacherous cinder in a pile of dry leaves. Like it demanded a watchful eye, else the ember might be stirred by a breeze to glow again and burn and burn.

I snapped a few photos of its dusky form. Then it turned, its back now facing the camera, and spread its wings. There smudged across its span were three bars of color: white over red over brown on black. Like three chalky rectangles floating in the void. The thing that worried me most about this creature was that it was somehow familiar, like somewhere deep in the recesses of my mind I had seen this before. But not on a butterfly, no, it had to be something else.

Six years ago, we drove up to canada in a cheap rental car. We threaded a trail up and east, across the Erie border, into the marigold hills of pennsylvania, through the vineyards and thin eastern pines of new york, up across the border.

We were spending a long weekend in Toronto, taking in the sights and sounds of a real city, a place where public transportation isn’t just a pipe dream. We bought fresh pears from a bodega in and took the metro across the river. We walked through the financial district and saw a seagull pick at fries in a discarded styrofoam container.

I say we. I can see the places in my mind, remember the sounds and smells, but she’s not really there in my memory anymore. My mind erased her from the picture, but the empty space she occupied is still there. Like a citation to a book that doesn’t exist, an overexposed blob on a film negative haunting every frame.

This was our last trip together, not that we knew that at the time. We were both worn out, a wordless static swelling between us. Radios tuned to different stations. We were growing apart, but neither of us wanted to admit it. That would be too brave. Easier to let it wither away until it’s a dry husk of what it once was. We had exhausted just about every other method of holding this thing together, so in a mocking reflection of our first date, we went to the Art Gallery of Ontario.

We casually wound through the hallways going through the motions, pointing out something interesting here, gently nodding there. In a dark room near the end, among the abstract expressionists, was that pattern I had seen before. A Rothko, white and red something, on display. It shook me more than I had anticipated that day. Something about the frankness of it. There was no obfuscation, no dalliance. It just was. I knew then that we had to split, come what may.

The camera fell from my eye as my arm went limp. This couldn’t possibly be the same pattern I’d seen six years ago. I must have been remembering the painting wrong. Or maybe some sicko had meticulously painted its wings. A cruel obsession. But the nausea welling inside me told me that I was flailing for a rational explanation for the irrational. That to know the thing was to unknow all else. That I was throwing darts at the tide. Putting a leash on an acorn. Crying over spooled milk.

I pulled myself from my stupor and shot a few pictures of its outstretched wings before it flew off. I showed the photos to the head of the butterfly house, almost just to reassure myself that I hadn’t imagined it. He had no idea where it had come from or what it was, but he did see the pattern, too. He guessed it was a rare genetic mutation occurring in a more common variety of butterfly. He went with me to look for it, but we didn’t find a trace of it in the conservatory.

Once I got home, I searched for the painting. There it was, Mark Rothko’s No.1, White and Red from 1962. It was identical to the pattern on the butterfly’s wings.There had to be some kind of connection between the bug and the painting, but even after hours of research, I just wasn’t seeing it. Eventually, like anything else, the novelty of that day wore off and I went back to my usual routines as if it had never happened.

One afternoon weeks later I stepped out of the humid greenhouse into the glaring september sun. The courtyard was hot and white. Sweat was dripping down my forehead, rolling into my eyes and stinging my vision. I squinted against the salt and light, and in my periphery saw a bird eating its dinner under an oak tree. A blackbird, large iridescent green-black, a white streak dripping down one wing. I rubbed my eyes to clear the sweat. The bird had something sticking out of its mouth: its poor prey hadn’t been completely devoured yet. Poking out of the black beak was a butterfly. It didn’t look like one from the conservatory, though. I took out my camera and zoomed in on the bird. The wing dangling from its mouth had a stunning pattern. Swirling blues and whites, tangerine globes and black spires. Before I could even register what I was seeing, the bird took off into the thick air.

That sickening deja vu hit me again, but this time I didn’t need to look it up to know what it was.

Eight years back on our trip to New York we explored the Museum of Modern Art. It was the first household-name-famous painting I’d seen in person. Not as big as I expected, but stunning nonetheless. Van Gogh. Starry Night.

I ran through the conservatory and out the door, tracking the blackbird as best I could. Jogging with my camera and bag wasn’t ideal. By the time the bird landed, I was red and puffing hard.

The shining bird with the dripping wing had landed on a branch next to a shuttered house. The surrounding houses were also condemned, and this one seemed to be in the worst condition of the bunch.

The white paint on the doorframe was peeling, revealing the wood grain underneath in stripes like the teeth of a great beast. The shutters were drooping eyelids, hanging crooked from their hinges. The windows were dusty and glazed over with cataract grime, those that weren’t shattered anyway. It was falling apart, a relic leftover from a more prosperous time, but it had an austere dignity that so many ancient and forgotten things do.

The tree next to the slouching old shack had crashed through the roof at one point. There the blackbird perched, inviting me into its home.

The door creaked open with a push, and the smell of wet wood and rotting fabric flushed out and spread over the brown lawn. Vines and mold reached in equal measure up the splotchy walls. Sunlight falling in through the hole in the ceiling stepped lightly down the stairs and caught dust in its place. An offwhite couch sat mouldering in one corner of the den, a table with a broken leg had years ago spilled its contents onto the floor. Green tendrils wrapped around lamp cords and stretched across rooms. A gentle drip in the stained kitchen sink rang out through the silent house.

And all across the ceiling through the house hung little crystalline pods. Hundreds of cocoons dangling from the stucco, from fan blades, from mounted pots and pans and light fixtures. A few butterflies were already emerging, casting aside their comfortable skin to face the new. These cocoons continued up the stairway and onto the ceiling of the second floor.

I crept up the uneven stairs, testing each one with a press of my foot just in case the whole thing was about to collapse. More chrysalis dotted the ceilings here, and so too did the pudgy little bugs that make them, inching their way across the abandoned home. Some bright and colorful, some drab and fuzzy, the caterpillars had moved into this space that people no longer wanted.

The hole in the ceiling up there had been worse than it looked from the outside. A section of the wall had been caved in as the tree grew through it. Its boughs outstretched along the broken wall as if cleaving it open, a large ovular hole in the trunk nearby slack like a hungry maw. Living branches and leaves intertwined with the dead lumber planks and leaden drywall. Caterpillars nibbled at the corners of the vibrant green foliage fanning out across what was once a bedroom, crawled up and down the bedposts and nightstand. I shudder to think what might have been festering under the mildewy comforter. The tiny creatures here covered nearly every interior surface after the mold and water damage had taken their parcels. A faint hum reverberated from somewhere within its walls.

Now that I had taken in the place, I could start examining the insects themselves. The caterpillars were mostly typical: short, rotund, many brightly colored like little tubes of acrylic paint, but they were hardly exceptional. They went about their business with a casual disinterest in my presence in their reclaimed home.

The butterflies, on the other hand, were illogical, inconceivable, exquisite.

Every lepidoptera had painted wings. Gently fluttering clouds, each point engraved with some classic or another; a monet here, a frankenthaler there. My mind reeled at the implications that this suggested. Did we influence them somehow, affect them to grow with these patterns? Or were our artistic hands subtly moved by some unseen force to create these great works? That’s what a lot of the ancients thought. Certain gods and muses could be literal in their influence. Divine inspiration.

On the other hand, what if there was an outside force affecting us, but it wasn’t helping us? What if it was indifferent to us, like the rest of the universe? Or actively malevolent? What if it wanted to reclaim the land from us, like the insects had taken this home?

I knew that if I thought too much about the big questions of the universe I’d lose myself, forget I’m a person and feel that cosmic unreality in the pit of my stomach. It struck me as odd that other people could perceive me. Odd that I existed at all.

I knew I should go home, but I couldn’t leave for fear that it might vanish just as quickly as it had popped into my life. I briskly walked to the truckstop up the highway to grab snacks, drinks, and a travel blanket. I was going to stay and document what I saw for as long as I could.

The insects in this house behaved quite differently from the ones outside. For one, they rarely traveled beyond the yard. The overgrown lawns dotted with wildflowers and tall grasses surrounding the place provided all that they needed. They also seemed to function as a unit, like a school of fish: when one moved, many moved in a cascading wave.

The artwork on their backs spanned ages. I saw greek pottery imprinted on their wings, the birth of venus, carvaggio’s light and shadow. Many of the works I recognized, some I didn’t. Who knows how many photos I took of the butterfly with the Last Supper on its back.

It must have been weeks that I slept on the dusty floor with a thin blanket and my camera bag as a pillow. The excitement and wonder kept me in place. I subsisted on empty gas station calories and sugary soda. The wrappers and empty bottles started radiating around me in a ritualistic circle as time wore on beyond my knowledge. My skin grew pale and oily, my hair matted, but I hardly noticed. I ate, observed, and very rarely slept.

I was so enthralled I had hardly noticed the change. The recent hatchlings had been trending toward modern art: no longer DaVinci’s and Gentileschi’s, the butterflies flitted about with more post-industrial design on their wings, Mondrian’s squares, Picasso’s blue period. The hum within the house had grown as well, but I hardly took notice at the time.

Then came the seismic shift. I was feeling weak, lightheaded and nearly delirious, when I saw a horse and rider mid-gait painted on an eggshell white body. No, not painted, I realized after some inspection. Photographed. Days passed and more butterflies emerged with film on their backs: images of war, recreation, winston churchill and che guavara.

The hum was loud enough now that I couldn’t ignore it. My head was pulsing and the noise was only exacerbating it. I needed to get out for a minute of fresh air.

I walked the abandoned neighborhood, then beyond into the former arts district. The stars were crystals hanging in deep blue velvet overhead. The streets were empty and still. I crossed the old craft store and paused to look in the window. I felt an irresistible compulsion to paint. But I had no money left after abandoning my job for weeks. I tore a section of my greasy shirt and wrapped it around my fist. The window shattered more easily than I’d expected.

I absconded back to my hideaway with tubes of oil paints, turpentine, brushes and rags, canvas.

Wading through the trash filling up my own little cocoon, I began to paint. I started on the canvas, but soon found it confining. My paint spilled off the page and onto the walls, the floors, the ceilings, the trash. I couldn’t say how long I painted. I never grew tired or hungry. I didn’t need or want. I was in the flow. I simply was.

The house was only so large, though. Two floors entirely covered in paint, dirty rags scattered about and turpentine dripping down the stairs, and yet I wasn’t satisfied. I’d have to make something else my canvas.

I started on my free hand, red and purple spots along my fingers, then green up my arm. Black along the torso, white stripes near ribs. I stripped off my remaining clothes that got in the way of my brush. Blue around my eyes, yellow bands across my head.

Once I was entirely encased in paint, I felt my mind relax, deflating like air let out of a balloon. I grew aware of my surroundings again. The hum had grown so loud it was shaking the remaining furniture in the bedroom. I had been so preoccupied with the transformation of the creatures that I hadn’t even noticed where they were actually coming from: caterpillars were pouring out of the hole in the encroaching tree. Swaths of crawling, squirming bugs spilled from the crooked mouth of bark and writhed in the dark room.

On the wall opposite the tree, butterflies gathered. They stationed themselves in a square on the white paint. They flapped their wings and moved in unison. This patch of living color formed a pointilist image of her face. An image I had taken. My own photograph of my former wife. The insectoid screen undulated and shifted, forming new images in succession like a flipbook, each one displaying a moment from my past that I had captured. New York, Toronto, chopping vegetables, hiking through shale caves, the first snowfall of our last year together.

I could feel the change curling inside me. Was I destined to take these photos, to mirror the natural patterns of the world? Or were these insects somehow directed to grow in accordance with my life? The swirling thoughts surged forth in waves of vertigo. My brain was swelling, pushing up against my skull.

I smelled smoke from the stairway, acrid chemical flame and burning cloth. Flames of every color rose and licked at the blackened walls, dancing and fluttering. Thick smog was filling the room. I dropped to my hands and knees and crawled to the only place that seemed safe, into the buzzing tree. I nestled down into the bark as far as I could, only the top of my head peering out through the opening. I felt my new brethren creeping and slinking in the darkness all around me.

I set up my camera and recorded this testimony with the last of its battery.

Oh my stomach is pulsing, moving, as if something is crawling inside. I can feel it bubbling up like gold from deep within. My back is splitting with wet folded wings. The photographs on their wings flip faster and faster until it’s a moving image, a film, streaming through the striations of black smoke. I can’t stifle my laughter as I see my life playing out before me on the living screen. Loud full body spasms. How else can you react to the absurdity of life laid bare so bluntly before you?

If a caterpillar can become a butterfly, what might I look like after my metamorphosis? What glory might humanity ascend to in its next phase? I envy you, because if you’re watching this, you know.

We’re ready to reclaim what you have taken. I am hatching. I am ascending on painted wings ablaze. But I am not in pain. I am beautiful.

CONWAY ON TAPE: Well, I...I’m gonna need a minute.

CLICK

***

CONWAY: Nothing stays the same, no matter how hard we try. Something somewhere is always changing, like the water to vapor. Hell, even electrons are always moving around, can’t quite pin ‘em down. The changes inside are the hardest to spot, though. And you’re usually the last one to notice you’ve changed. You’re you, after all.

As I slipped my influence into every corner of this state, I could barely recall most of my life, such as it was. Didn't miss my body all that much either, never really felt like I fit in it anyway. But for a moment, I felt a bit nostalgic for my old job.

This nostalgia is a warning sign that something isn’t what it once was, that some part of you is no longer there. I hadn’t seen the cracks forming yet. I was still intoxicated with my new position. There was a rock in my metaphorical shoe, though. A lingering thought I just couldn’t shake, even with all this.

It started with the phone call from the fisherman. “You’re not real.” What the hell was that all about? Of course I’m real. “I think therefore” and all that. I’m the Boss. I’ve got buildings full of people who listen to me. Doesn’t get much realer than that.

But there was that itch somewhere in the vast and ever expanding recesses of my consciousness I couldn’t quite scratch. I felt like I was forgetting something, or like I was about to remember something big.

“How’s Lucy?”

***

Outro--interrupted

*brakes screech*

I fell asleep at the wheel and woke up at the bottom of an off-ramp. With no one else around and nothing to distract me, I dozed off. Just for a second. I’m not proud of it, but it’s the truth. I caught myself quickly enough that I somehow managed to avoid smashing into any of the parked--well “parked”--cars on the highway. I was at a stop sign, and ahead of me was a one-lane country road. I couldn’t see anyone in either direction for as far as my eyesight allowed. But below the stop sign was a bright green plaque, emblazoned with a path to what I’d been looking for:

AISLING - FIVE MILES.

Conway, here I come.

***

LIZ: Is anyone here?

*muffled response*

LIZ: Hello? I know you’re around somewhere.

LIZ: Hey. Hey!...hmmm...hail and well met, shadow, I mean you no harm. *under her breath* “Hail and well met”? Jesus, what’s wrong with me.

SHADOW: *anxious* What was that?

LIZ: I’m Liz, who the hell are you?

SHADOW: *slowly, with effort* I...I don’t know. It’s hard to think. I’m...where am I? What am I?

LIZ: I know, I totally felt the same. Just take a minute. Relax. I’m a friend.

SHADOW: I can’t feel my...anything.

LIZ: Yup, that’ll happen. Corporeality’s kinda messed up here. So it goes. If you focus really hard, you might be able to keep yourself solid. See?

SHADOW: I’m dreaming. This isn’t real...I must still be asleep.

LIZ: Sure, you sort of are. Anyway, what do you say we get out of here? See your friends again.

SHADOW: But...wait, I remember something. I can’t go yet. The Head Office. The Board Room. There’s...there’s something there. It’s...oh god. The tower. We can’t just leave it there.

LIZ: Board Room? Can you show me?

SHADOW: I think I can lead us there. But...

LIZ, to WREN: Wren, this could be big. Could be a whole lot of shadows there for us to recruit. I’m going in. Good luck out there.

BONUS: Nine to Midnight

29 oktober 2021 | 95 min

On the eve of Halloween, nine storytellers make their way to an abandoned asylum to share their terrifying truths about the darkness that exists around them. As the tales unfold, each more visceral than the last, the nine may just discover that it is not the waking world to fear, but the horrors that lay within.

Nine to Midnight is a collaborative storytelling event between nine podcasts:

Malevolent (https://www.malevolent.ca)

WOE.BEGONE (https://www.woebegonepod.com)

Wake of Corrosion (https://wakeofcorrosion.carrd.co)

The Dead Letter Office of Somewhere, Ohio (https://www.somewhereohio.com)

The Cellar Letters (https://www.thecellarletters.com)

The Storage Papers (https://www.thestoragepapers.com)

The Town Whispers (https://www.thetownwhispers.com)

Nowhere, On Air (https://nowhereonairpodcast.weebly.com)

Hell Gate City Companion (https://www.hellgatecity.com)

CREDITS & CONTENT WARNINGS

CW: General horror, swearing throughout

Produced by Harlan Guthrie

Master edit by Harlan Guthrie

'Nine to Midnight' written by Harlan Guthrie.

Performed by Harlan Guthrie, Dylan Griggs, Shaun Pellington, Rat Grimes, Jamie Petronis, Jeremy Enfinger, Nathan Lunsford, Cole Weavers, Jess Syratt, and Kevin Berrey.

8:05 | 'Rare Book' written, performed, edited, and mixed by Harlan Guthrie of Malevolent.

16:50 | 'The Knocking' written, performed, edited, mixed, and music composed & performed by Dylan Griggs of WOE.BEGONE.

27:05 | 'The Broken Man' written, performed, edited, and mixed by Shaun Pellington of Wake of Corrosion.

CW: Violence, injury

35:30 | 'The Pool' written, performed, edited, mixed, and music composed & performed by Rat Grimes of The Dead Letter Office of Somewhere, Ohio.

CW: Death, drowning

44:42 | 'The 1 to 5 Minute Man' written, performed, edited, and mixed by Jamie Petronis of The Cellar Letters.

52:24 | 'Ridgefield Manor' written, edited, and mixed by Nathan Lunsford.

Performed by Jeremy Enfinger and Nathan Lunsford of The Storage Papers.

Additional sounds from Zapsplat (https://www.zapsplat.com).

CW: Discussion of murder and suicide

1:02:45 | 'Public Access' written, performed, edited, and mixed by Cole Weavers of The Town Whispers.

1:12:34 | 'The Shortcut' written, performed, edited, and mixed by Jess Syratt of Nowhere, On Air.

1:22:14 | 'Peepers Creepers' written, produced, performed, edited, and mixed by Kevin Berrey, Screaming Panda LLC of Hell Gate City Companion.

Music composed by Cheska Navarro (https://www.cheskanavarro.com).

Sounds from Zapsplat (https://www.zapsplat.com).

Additional sounds and effects licensed under CC BY 3.0: https://freesound.org/people/Garuda1982/sounds/570378/ by Garuda1982 https://freesound.org/people/cbakos/sounds/50646/ by cbakos https://freesound.org/people/trip_sound/sounds/190470/ by trip_sound https://freesound.org/people/Omar%20Alvarado/sounds/251538/ by Omar Alvarado

https://freesound.org/people/SLCBagpiper/sounds/337743/ by SLCBagpiper https://freesound.org/people/GM180259/sounds/491997/ by GM180259

DLO 15: KISS ME SON OF GOD

20 september 2021 | 27 min

As we’ve previously established, forward and backward are not necessarily stable concepts.

Conway makes a choice. Wren steels their nerves. A familiar face appears. This is the end.

(CWs: food, brief allusion to bullying, mild apocalyptic imagery, death)

Nathan of The Storage Papers as AGENT/DIRECTOR; Jess of Nowhere, On Air as Liz. Go listen to their shows!

https://nowhereonairpodcast.weebly.com/

thestoragepapers.com

Kiss Me Son of God originally by They Might Be Giants (John Flansburgh and John Linnell)

Quotes from Jean Baudrillard's Fatal Strategies and John Stuart Mill.

*Projector clicks, a dark smoky room filled with people*

AGENT: That brings us to the falling hand incident from a few years back, dead case 0069.

*sparse chuckles from audience members*

AGENT: *exasperated* Jesus, I’m running a daycare here. Now those of you who were with the office at the time will already know all this. You new guys won’t know anything about it. But that’s why we’re here, right? One of our field agents witnessed the whole thing, and gave their testimony during a thorough debriefing here in HQ. Pay attention to Wren’s account. I’m only going over it once.

*slide click*

*INTRO MUSIC*

WREN, on tape: Falling to earth from somewhere I chose not to think about was a left hand.

AGENT, on tape: So what did you do?

WREN: Well, I tried the one thing I hadn’t done yet. One last shot before the end of the world. I called Conway.

CONWAY: Hard to explain how I got into that lighthouse. Can barely remember it myself through the fog of exhaustion. I was so damn tired. But get in I did. And at the top--or was it bottom?--was a dark, steamy room. An office of sorts, filled with smoke pouring out from some sort of awful machine in the corner. The engine’s shape was irregular, almost hard to look at, but it kept spewing its haze like humid breath. In the center of the office was a desk, set with--you guessed it--a phone, some stationary, a blank nameplate, a painting of an old lighthouse in a gold frame. I sat in the plush leather chair behind the desk. A highly welcome respite after the day I’d had. The woods, the mall, the deerhead priest, the lost fisherman. I needed a minute to put my feet up. I’d earned it.

I leaned back and looked at the empty notepad. “Welcome to the Deerland Mall” was printed at the top of each page. I had the materials to send a letter to the DLO, but what to actually write? “Hey, I’m in a weird lighthouse somewhere, come get me?” I didn’t see how that would work. Still, according to the fisherman, I had two paths in front of me: write home and go back to my life as it was, or answer the call and take the promotion.

And then it rang. No, not the offwhite rotary phone in front of me, it was my cell phone. Didn’t recognize the number. Probably somebody calling about my car’s warranty or a $50 walmart gift card. But at that point I was willing to take that risk just to hear someone who didn’t talk in metaphors again.

CONWAY, on the phone: Hello?

WREN, on the phone: Conway? Oh my god, is that you!?

CONWAY: Yeah, this is Conway. Hard to make out what you’re saying. Sorry, who is this?

WREN: Oh wow, I don’t know how I got through to you but listen: I’m coming to get you.

CONWAY: I don’t reckon that’s the smartest idea. I don’t even know wh--

WREN: I’ve followed your trail. I think I’m nearby now. But there’s something going on. Something you’re connected to. It’s bad. Lucy told me where to find you. I think she’s--

CONWAY: Now what is this about Lucy? You talked to her? Are you with the office? How...how is she?

WREN: I just got a postcard from her. But listen, something’s coming, and I don’t think it’s going to end well. I need you to come out of the cave now. I’ll be at the entrance waiting to take your hand.

CONWAY: Cave? THAT cave? I’m...wherever I am, I’m not in there.

WREN: Where are you? This may be it, Conway. The end.CONWAY: I’m in a lighthouse. The fisherman in the place that looks just like a blockbuster said...well you know what, that doesn’t make any sense saying out loud...I’m tired, you know? I don’t want to keep going. I want to sit down for a minute. At this desk. I don’t think that’s selfish.

WREN: Desk?CONWAY: Yeah there’s like a whole swanky office here. Guy said I could be the boss if I wanted to. Kenji didn’t have what it took, but I just might. I’m so damn tired of it all, you know? The grind. And there’s some kind of machine. I think I’ve heard of it before. Somebody called it the lucid engine. If I’m the dreamer, that means…

WREN: Conway I don’t think I follow. Boss? Just come back, okay? We need you.

CONWAY: Now you too, huh? Seems like everyone’s got something for me to do. More work. I don’t think I’ve got it in me. I need a break.

WREN, over static: Conway, you’re breaking up. Come back to me. I think you’re responsible for--

CONWAY: Can’t it wait 15 minutes?WREN: I can’t hear you--

CONWAY: Look, I’m not sure what you expect of me, but I have a feeling you’re gonna be disappointed, like everyone else. Like Lucy. Even myself...I shouldn’t be reading mail in a damn office. What am I doing? I studied art, I did radio. Poorly, I might add, but I put in the time. Now my dad worked the same job for 40 years, bought a house, got a pension, and retired. I’ve got nothing to show for my labors but a pile of debts and a sore back. Feel like I’m owed something after all this or it’s for nothing. Look, I want to go home, but home kind of blows. Just live to work, work to live...It ain’t human. If I have a chance to get out of that hamster wheel...well, sometimes when an opportunity comes along, you have to snatch it.

Take care of yourself, kid. See you on the other side.

WREN: The line went dead. I had no idea what he meant, and it sounded like he wasn’t too sure, either. I left my car parked in the grass. I managed to tear my focus away from the falling hand and ventured into the woods.

I had plenty of time to myself to think as I stepped through the crackling branches and deep grass between the trees. Why was I even pursuing this? Was finding someone I’ve never met before worth losing my job over? What if he didn’t want to be found? Wanted to disappear? Here I was trudging through the buggy forest looking for a cave. What was in the cave? No idea. Why was I looking for it? No idea. Still, I went on with my little task despite everything. Maybe it was the last thing left I felt I had any control over. Maybe I was just stubborn. Maybe I wanted someone to praise me. Well that’s for my therapist to sort out now.

I came upon a creek by a shale ridge. I hopped across on the smooth black stones breaking through the water. One, two, and slipped on the third. I fell into the creek. Not deep enough to be dangerous, but it didn’t help my mood. I sat in the muck for a moment. The stream was clear and cool. Looking down at the rippling surface, dappled sunlight bounced along the contours of the tiny waves washing away from me. I watched the light dance on the water for a minute or a year, and then saw something reflected in the water. A break in the sheer stone beside me that I hadn’t noticed before, or couldn’t see before. A gaping wound in the rock.

I slowly rose from the creek, water pouring out of the pockets and folds of my clothes. I kept my eyes on the reflection on the surface, and walked backward to where the cave should be. I saw myself in the water, glaring sun alight on the ripples, my back to the cave. Then I went in.

AGENT, on tape: So far I’m not seeing how all this connects.

WREN, on tape: I was only barely starting to then, as well.

AGENT: All right, go on. What was in the cave?

WREN: Clarity. *music swells, then abruptly cuts out*

AGENT: Come on, really?

WREN: Yes, really, but more than that too, if you’d let me finish without interruption.

*Music continues*

WREN: I was surrounded by damp dark stone. My footsteps echoed with such resonance that the cave had to be massive.

After minutes of stumbling through pure black, a dot of light appeared in the distance ahead. It was as good a waypoint as any other I had. So I continued toward it.

It may come as a shock to you, but I was a bit of a solitary child. No brothers or sisters. Parents kind, but busy. We rarely did anything as a family or even dined together, other than breakfast. Before they left for work and I went to school, we shared whatever bits of news we had, then parted ways. It may sound less than ideal, but I preferred it that way. I think I did. I’d spend the evenings looking up at the night sky, trying to tune in to astral signals I wasn’t supposed to know about. Surrounded by the hypnotic drone of cicadas and the polyrhythm of cricketsong, I found joy. For a time.

Flashbulb memories pulled forth by the cave. Ghostly afterimages and faroff scents. Birthdays, weekends, cardboard castles and polaroids. Enthusiastic child. A butterfly emerging from its chrysalis in a mason jar. Precocious. Singing, learning. Gentle. Someone playing soccer too rough, but only with me. Tackled, pinned, forfeit. Difference. The scratching of nails and humming of speakers. My first dance where I didn’t dance at all. Perfume. Laughter. Clothes that didn’t fit. Words that didn’t fit. Burnt scrambled eggs. Dark poetry and bad movies. Static. Carving sacred names into bedframes. Horizontal lines. Flowers emerging then shrinking. Summers smeared like watercolor into fall. Dripping paint.

A college dropout. Destined for menial labor. A gear dislodged from the system. Quiet. Only a matter of time.

But the conjurers of tradition were wrong about me. I wasn’t meant to turn wheels. It took some time to unlearn these thought patterns I’d been forced into by school, work, and law. To undo the oppression of orthodoxy. Time and effort. A lot of pain. Mill said it’s better to be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied. But look at the pig’s face, watch it frolic and splash, and then look at the prisons built for us: cubicles, luxury apartments, retail warehouses, slums, mass graves. If this is what it is to be human...you tell me.

At least I knew that as the curtain call approached, I was truly who I wanted to be. I was doing what I wanted to do. I wouldn’t die dissatisfied in a cage. I would die smiling in the mud.

Tiny points of starlight flicked into existence in the cave overhead, swirls of constellations and galaxy arms reaching. I heard crickets in the grass that was sprouting under my feet. The dot of light ahead grew into a blob, expanded in a luminescent rectangle a dozen feet over my head, then letters appeared. I smelled butter on the grill, cheap coffee. A beaming yellow sign in front of a yellow building. It was beacon for a wayward ship. Sitting alone at the end of the world, bathed in cosmic glow, was a waffle house.

Of course it would be a waffle house.

***

CONWAY: I’d have to be some kind of moron not to answer that call, wouldn’t I? How could I just go back to my life knowing all this? Knowing what I passed up? That’d be like handing back the winning lottery ticket. Though I’d heard stories about what happens to some lottery winners.

Of course I picked up the phone. There was no voice on the other end, only humming, crackling static. I felt electricity run from the receiver into my ear, down my shoulders and back, all through my limbs. A giddy bolt. I dropped the phone. Who knows if it hit the ground or disintegrated. I felt energy surge through my body. I was elated, unlimited. I suddenly knew that this is where I was supposed to be. I belonged to it, a missing limb returned.

My step was light, like walking on water, to the engine. I felt it calling to me, singing in smoke, waiting for my charged touch. This would be my deliverance and my deliverer.

Lucy, I...Lucy, I couldn’t face you again. I wasn’t ready yet. I had to let that part go. I had to let go all the things that bound me to who I was, sever all ties if I were to succeed. My finger made contact with the holy motor and my body was no more.

***

WREN: Buzzing lights flicked overhead inside the diner. I scanned the place for any signs of life, but no results. I took a seat at one of the sticky booths and picked at the duct taped upholstery. I tried to peer outside but all was dark. I could only see my face reflected in the glass. I looked tired. Lonely. Someone was standing behind me in the reflection. A waitress at my table. I couldn’t see her expression, but she silently held out a menu.

“Oh, no thank you. I’m just resting for a moment.”

Her arm remained outstretched, menu aloft.

“You’re the only one here. It’s late. I don’t want to be an imposition.”

She didn’t budge.

“So be it. I’ll have two eggs--over easy but not too runny--two pieces of toast on white, a double side of hashbrowns--smothered, covered, and capped with ketchup on the side--and a cup of coffee--black if it’s fresh, a dash of milk if it’s been out a while.”

As if I needed a menu. She nodded and withdrew toward the kitchen. I heard eggs hit the griddle, sizzling and squeaking, crisping just so on the edges. My mind left my body for a moment. I floated above the restaurant in the void. I saw a family of possums digging through a dumpster out back. I wondered if I should have gotten a waffle. The clatter of a plate in front of me brought me back. A little smiley face of ketchup on the hashbrowns looked up at me.

Tell me, director, have you ever wept over breakfast? I have. There I sat, still wet from the creek and caked in mud, huge streams of tears running down my hot face as I dug into the greasy pile. Someone made this for me. Cared for me. Not in a familial or romantic sense, just in the way that people take care of other people. Nothing else in the world mattered beyond this plate, this place, for just a moment. It’s the little pleasures that keep us going even in the shadow of apocalypse. A waffle house left standing after a hurricane.

Clarity. The odd letter, the directives from above, the fuzzy call. The pieces fell into place. Conway wasn’t coming back.

The waitress returned from...somewhere to take my empty plate. I thanked her, but she didn’t respond. Instead she turned to leave, which is when I realized that she was only using her right hand.

I tried to ask for her name, but she was gone. A receipt left stuck to the table made the answer clear: “Your server today was: Lucy” accompanied by a smiling face.

AGENT, on tape: Wait, Lucy’s real?

WREN, on tape: Real as you or I.

AGENT: But what happened to her? Where is she? WHO is she?

WREN: I’ll get to it eventually. Promise. First there’s the issue of the Boss.

****

CONWAY: My physical form dissipated in streaks of light, as did any lingering doubts I might have had. My fingers reached out across the beach, bending over the land. My feet were tree roots, ancient and intractable. My heart caught fire and burned eternally underground. Never again did I need to worry about hunger, pain. Money. I’d have people for that. Speaking of…

I became aware of all those under my domain. Offices like hives, honeycomb cubicles full of shadows. Warehouses of hollow shells sanded down to nothing throughout this great right-to work-state. Souls destroyed by the midwest burned in the lucid engine, now they were husks, but working husks. All at my command with a single impulse. And if I ever needed more workers, I could reach through the wires, touch some hearts, and set them aglow. I wouldn’t abuse that power, I thought. I’d make a fine boss. Great, even. Pay’s not bad for entry level work so they shouldn’t complain.

So what would my first order of business be now that I was the Boss, Wren? Well, it would behoove me to make sure someone like me doesn’t find me and take over. I’d need a way to contain any traces of myself, this place, and its inhabitants. I’d need to prevent word from getting out to the public about...well, any of this. I would need people, not just my shadows here but real hands and feet employees, to do it.

I’d need to form an organization, one dedicated to cataloging things out of place and setting them right. Or at least keeping the things that shouldn’t exist hidden from public view. A web of people all over the country, a low-profile surveillance network, a vault. I’d form The Dead Letter Office of Aisling, Ohio.

It all lined up. All those piled up cliches, the missing person, the mysterious town, the odd letters. Of course they were all a ruse designed to grab my interest and not let go. It’d been me the whole time. I built this place, on the backs of those I used to work with.

To quote a great philosopher, if I may: “Perfect is the event which assumes its own mode of disappearance...Imagine a good resplendent with all the power of Evil: this is God...creating the world on a dare and calling on it to destroy itself...”

Once I was gone, I needed to make sure no one went looking for me. I’d have to find some cog and keep them at my old desk to sort through the mess. A real beaurocrat. Tell them they’re looking for clues. Keep them on a track.

I’d need an intermediary to pass between me and the membrane of the real. Someone of the dream but outside it. It had to be Kenji. The second man, the son of god. My courrier, my herald. He brought me here--at my own behest I knew then--and he would keep me here.

Now all I had to do was sit back and let my word be known. Kenji, take dictation:

There’s electricity in the margins on the page, an atom bomb’s worth. In the space between the words, there’s energy. The things we can’t see are made of that energy. They travel through the wires and hide in stoplights. We can’t see them because we’re not meant to see them. They come out at night and ride on the electrons in the air. We are made of electrons. When the twilight is gone, and no songbirds are singing, God comes through the lines and sits in the streetlights. He waves but you can’t see it (fades into The Boss voice)

AGENT, on tape: He told you all that, huh? But he’s gone.

WREN, on tape: In a manner of speaking, yes.

AGENT: Was he ever really there?

WREN: In a manner of speaking, no. He was a mask.

AGENT: What about you?

WREN: I walked back through the darkness of the cave satiated, but determined. The stars disappeared, the grass receded, and the balmy woods returned. I wandered back to my car and looked up into the clear blue. The hand above had closed into a fist, and it hung motionless in the air, waiting like the cocked hammer of a pistol. The insects in the woods had gone quiet. A hawk was frozen mid-strike. Everything was still and silent. The missing second that only comes along once in a million years.

If the world were a just place, it all would have ended there. The hand would have disappeared, the world would keep spinning, the birds would sing. But it’s not, and it didn’t. The only justice in the world is that which we make ourselves, by olive branch or blood.

You must understand: this is the inevitable outcome when things are out of balance, when we submit to orthodoxy. When we try to drown out that strange frequency. When all is built on bad faith, entire structures in our brain designed to lie to ourselves. It all collapses eventually. It’s fatal. Slow death.

I tried calling Conway again, but he didn’t answer. He made me care about him and then turned on me. Damn it all, I let myself get vulnerable. I couldn’t be afraid to get my hands dirty this time. I wouldn’t be the beetle, devoured by the hungry bird. I would be the wasp, stinging all the way down.

I slammed the car door and sped off in a cloud of gravel and dust.

It’s fatal, but it is preventable, this collapse. There’s a solution; we’re not yet at the end of history. If I couldn’t convince Conway--the Boss--to face what was coming nicely, I’d drag him out, kicking and screaming if necessary. I couldn’t do it alone, but I could find others. We had the numbers, we could do it. For me, for Lucy, for everyone.

By blood it is, Boss.

I built a little empire out of some crazy garbage

Called the blood of the exploited working class

But they've overcome their shyness

Now they're calling me Your Highness

And a world screams, "Kiss me, Son of God"

I destroyed a bond of friendship and respect

Between the only people left who'd even look me in the eye

Now I laugh and make a fortune

Off the same ones that I tortured

And a world screams, "Kiss me, Son of God"

I look like Jesus, so they say

But Mr. Jesus is very far away

Now you're the only one here who can tell me if it's true

That you love me and I love me

I built a little empire out of some crazy garbage

Called the blood of the exploited working class

But they've overcome their shyness

Now they're calling me Your Highness

And a world screams, "Kiss me, Son of God"

Yes the world screams, "Kiss me, Son of God"

AGENT, in projector room: So we’ve covered that Conway was the founder and Boss of the DLO, Wren tried to track him down, and we were all about to die. Any questions so far? No? Good. Now let’s get to the weird stuff.

END

LIZ, floating in the void: Where am I? All I remember is...fire...am I dead? If I’m dead, how come I’m still like...thinking. Suck it, Descartes.

Damn. Does that mean I wrong about the whole god thing?

WREN, from the shadows: Who might you be?

LIZ: I’m Liz, who the hell are you? Wait...you’re not…

WREN: No! No, I’m Wren. I’m looking for collaborators. Shadows with some bite left.

LIZ: Uhh...

WREN: I understand this is all very confusing. But if you help me, I’ll return the favor.

LIZ: Just tell me this: how’s Priya? Is she okay?

WREN: Let me show you.

LIZ: Oh god...

WREN: I know who did this, and I’m coming for him. Are you in?

REAL END

OUT OF FICTION CREDITS:

Hey everyone, it’s your host here. Thank you for listening to the first two seasons of the show (assuming you didn’t just skip to this episode, that would be a bad idea). Now I’ll be taking a break from here on out to work on some season 3 ideas. I would like to thank my patrons, carriers Flo and Jessica, Receiving clerks Ezra, Elena, Jennifer, Patricia, Paul, Spicy Nigel, and Gadz. Thank you all for your support throughout season 2, and to everyone else sharing and supporting the show. If you’d like to get your name in the credits next season like these fine folk, sign up at Patreon.com/somewhereohio and select one of the tiers there. If you like the show, drop a rating or review on your podcast platform of choice. It’s free, if you do a rating you don’t even have to write anything and it helps the creators a lot (even though it seems like maybe it shouldn’t). Until next time.

DLO 14: CLUES/THE CAVE

30 augusti 2021 | 25 min

DLO 13: PROJECTION

9 augusti 2021 | 23 min

A man finds strangely familiar movies outside his door, someone pushes a rock up a hill, a dog chases its tail, and Wren takes things into their own hands.

(CWs, minor spoilers: blood, death, brief mention of sex, some language, vomit, birds, dogs, derealization)

TRANSCRIPT:

WREN: The crowd at the Song Bird had vanished. The edges of the room faded into a misty gray. The woman I’d been talking to was gone. All that remained was the stage, awash in nightclub luminance. There was something standing on the stage. A kind of shapeless being. Its body was waving like a dead flag stirred by a subtle breeze. Harsh noise blared through the ashen bar. It seemed to be facing my direction despite its lack of features. I turned to run for the exit, but the door was no longer there: the back half of the dive bar now extended into an endless void. The jittering form reached out, and from its hand erupted streams of black ribbon. They curled around my feet with some force and bound my movement. I kicked and tore at them, but it was no use. They continued snaking up my legs.

The shape on the stage bellowed again, a horn from the lighthouse of the damned, and the ribbons tugged hard at my feet, knocking me down and pulling me toward the thing. The strands were halfway up my torso, and quickly began restricting my arms as I clawed at the checkered linoleum floor. I was pulled halfway up the stage, wrapped nearly to my throat in tight black bands. The closer I got to the umbral figure, the harder it became to breathe. My chest tightened, and each breath felt like I was gulping down burning air. I felt a hot jolt run through my body. I wriggled furiously and knocked over the microphone stand. Feedback screeched through the ethereal room.

Just as the ribbon was about to encroach on my lips and stifle my cries, something emerged from the gloom beyond the walls. It flew between the projector and lyrics splashed on the screen and for just an instant, it cast an avian silhouette against the wall: a huge feathered beast, wings flared and talons outstretched to strike. It slammed into the shadow on stage and tore through the strands confining me. No longer connected to my would-be abductor, they lost their mystic pull. I broke my arms free and tore through at the constraints around my feet. It wasn’t until later--hunched over my stained coffee table with a mug of green tea, draped in a blanket and shaking--that I realized what had been wrapping me: magnetic ribbon, the kind used in video tapes.

The giant raven stood on stage with its back to me, its foot on the slowly vanishing shadow monster. It struck me as odd that the thing had any form at all on which to step. But now was no time for wandering thoughts.

I tried to call out, but my voice was hoarse and dry. The bird didn’t move.

WREN: “You saved me from...whatever that was. Can I repay your kind favor somehow?”

The hulking corvid turned its head back to me. It had no beak, nor feathers on its face. Instead I saw pale skin, dark eyes, lips; upsettingly human.

AVERY: “You already have,”

WREN: it replied in a voice that sounded uncannily like my own.

And then the bar was back, and I was standing alone and disheveled in the middle of a vibrant dance floor. No bird, no shadow, no ribbon. Just me, alone among the crowd.

I fled the bar and didn’t look back. Though looking back now, I think I forgot to pay my tab. I should probably return soon and hope for a better experience.

Now, let’s take a look at the penultimate letter in Conway’s backlog. It is addressed to a John Johnson at 123 Cool Street, Real City, Ohio. Right...seems like the only indication of where it came from is the stationary, labeled “Welcome to the Deerland Mall.” I don’t think I’ve heard of a Deerland, Ohio, nor its mall. Let’s see what this letter has to offer.

CONWAY: Let me tell you a story. An aspiring screenwriter and college dropout was working at an indie movie theater. Let’s call him John. He worked the late shift, usually slow now that the old college town was starting to lose most of its college students. He used his free time in the projection room to work on his scripts. He had a friend, we’ll say David, who said he was “in the biz,” whatever that means. About once a week, David sent over some weird reel he’d gotten a hold of. Once the manager was off for the day and the crowds had all but gone home, John would set up the projector and screen whatever wild stuff David had found. Exploitation flicks, experimental genre stuff, early short films by famous directors. It wasn’t always that exciting, though. Sometimes it was boring b-roll footage, or badly transferred home movies. Regardless, John would screen them and then he and David would talk about it the next day.

One evening, deep into the greasy salty night, John nodded off while waiting for a delivery. It was only for a minute, but when he woke up, a film canister was there at the door to the projection room. John looked the canister over. No shipping package, no label, no markings, just a clean metal disc. John loaded it up as usual. As the flickering quicksilver poured through the empty theater onto the screen, John was struck by something. He knew the star of this one. Not like in the way you “know” a celebrity, he really knew her. He couldn’t see her face right away but he knew it was her: an ex of his he hadn’t talked to in years. She wasn’t an actor, never showed an interest in it to his knowledge, but there she was.

She was winding down the aisles of a brightly lit grocery store. She picked up a box of fruit loops and put it in her cart. Then she was outside shivering, looking up at the full winter moon through cloudy breath. The moon was a bowl of cereal she ate for breakfast, then click clack off to work along the rumbling subway tunnels, click clack keyboards and phone calls, the touch of fur under palm, and then the reel stopped.

There was no dialogue, no real characters, no theme or meaning he could really get at. The backgrounds and settings were all vague, almost abstract. But it all seemed a little familiar to John. He felt a wave of deja vu wash over him, a memory tingling in some lost corner of his mind trying to get his attention.

The next day, John called David and asked him where he got the film. David had no idea what John was talking about. He didn’t send any reels that week. John told David to hold off with the movies for now, just to see if any more of these unsourced films showed up.

And show up they did.

***

Saturday night somewhere in Pittsburgh. Interior of John’s apartment. He’s fast asleep in bed. We can hear his snoring as we pass through the open window. Tight shot of John’s face, then crossfade into the dream.

John is on a plane, middle seat surrounded by faceless strangers murmuring incomprehensible dialogue. “Watermelon, peas and carrots, lorem ipsum.” He looks around the flying tin and sucks in the stale air. The window shade is open, cloudless dawn or dusk or the dead of night shimmers out of view. The plane cruises through thick rivulets of puffy clouds. John is terribly thirsty. He tries to signal for a flight attendant but his arm won’t rise. He tries to talk but his voice comes out in a soft hiss. He screams, but his expletive barely moves past his lips before silently crashing to the floor.

Then John is sitting in the terminal in Germany with a return flight in a week. But he’s forgotten to call off work. He tries to call his boss, but the line won’t connect. Wide shot of John’s bedroom, he bolts upright and looks out the window. A plane blinks in the sky over the city. Scene.

***

Sunday night came around and John was at the theater as usual. He was scribbling away in the moleskine notebook as the projector streamed a vision of another world on the screen. The click and whirr of the machine was a nice distraction, a good way to occupy the nagging part of his brain that always pulled at his attention.

Just as he had started writing some snappy dialogue, there was a clank outside the projection room. He peeked outside, and in front of the door was another blank canister, the deliverer nowhere to be seen.

There was no one in the audience, so no one would mind a quick change of scenery, right? The projector buzzed and spun the new reel. Light filtered through the 35mm print, spitting its magnified contents across the room. When the first image appeared, John’s breath caught in his chest. He felt the creeping itch of panic in his throat like rising seawater. There was a plane, a crowd of people, an open window, a thirsty patron, a terminal. Exactly like John’s dream, or what he could remember of it. That’s when he realized why the first mysterious film was so familiar: it was a dream he’d had a few weeks back. Fragments of half-forgotten sights and sounds flashed in a jumbled collage in his mind.

“Holy shit, is that Emily?” David asked as the two sat in the audience for a private late night screening of the first mysterious film. “I had no idea she could act. This is pretty good!” John was less enthused. “Sorry. It’s so short though. Is that it?”

John said that had to be it because that’s all that was in his dream.

“This is literally unbelievable. Like I don’t believe what you’re saying. Wait a week, and if another comes in, call me right away. We’ll watch it together and I’ll see if you’re just messing with me.”

John had fitful sleep the following week. He couldn’t focus on his writing. He was getting irritable and paranoid. Someone had to be watching him, right? How else would they know this stuff? Were they reading his journal?

John woke up that sunday groggy and distracted. He couldn’t remember his dream clearly, something about a street maybe. But come nightfall, another canister showed up at the projectionist’s door. John set the reel spinning and David watched.

In the film, David was in the middle of Hamburg, Germany, or rather what a young white guy in America who’s never been abroad might imagine Hamburg looks like. He was wandering through the streets and looking at the various buildings. He kept turning to the camera and saying something, but there was no sound. Then the screen went white.

“What the hell was that?” David accused more than asked this time. “Were you spying on me or something? Where was that? I don’t recognize it.” John reiterated the theory about his dreams. David was pale now, the reality of what was going on finally sinking in.

“This is sick. Bad sick. That means someone is watching this and putting it into to film. What if you have a messed up dream, or like a sex thing with somebody, or a nightmare. Are there other copies being sent to other theaters? I don’t want people seeing this.”

It was all too much for John, too intimate, too unsettling. We can’t control what we dream anymore than we can control our heartbeat or our appetites. It just is what it is. But what if what it is is really rotten? And what if someone else finds that rot at our core?

These were John’s thoughts as he looked over other jobs for the week. At least maybe if he got away from the theater, this would all stop. Made about as much sense as how it started. Why did David have to start bringing over bootleg reels anyway? He’s the one who got John into this and

Interior. Unknown time. John is standing in a stark white bathroom, the floor stained deep red in a growing pool. There’s David, his throat slit open, painting streaks of crimson on the wall as he flails and grips at his wound. In John’s hand is a straight razor, you know like the kind old barbers sharpened on that leather strip. Real Sweeney Todd stuff. David chokes and bubbles until his body slows and he slumps against the wall. John climbs in the shower behind him and closes the curtain. The blood rushing in his ears is the deafening sound of waves on the shore. He can still see the red smears through the plastic curtain in a smudged vignette, and the red on his hands drips into the tub. He sees a blur that used to be David in the corner. John’s vision shakes as the blur that was David rises. Circles of pulsing light shoot through John as the blur that was David comes closer, one unfocused hand reaching, gripping the shower curtain. It pulls, the cheap pvc sheet ripped from its hooks, and falls over John’s head. He tumbles backward against the shower wall. The blur that was David leans in, and

John was back at work screening some real junk for an audience of two. Probably teens there to make out. He was drawing little ink circles in his notebook. He hadn’t had any good ideas in weeks. All of his thoughts were occupied by his current...predicament.

He draws the circle bigger and bigger, until it expands beyond the borders of his notebook and paints black lines in the air. The ink begins filling the room. It threatens to absorb him into its eternal center. He tries to run but his legs are

John’s notebook hitting the ground stirred him. The projector was spinning dry and the only patrons departed. He must have dozed off. He stuffed his notebook in his bag and moved to leave when he saw the canister outside the door: a round tin streaked with red.

John’s heart fell through the floor. Metaphorically speaking, that is. Good stories should have metaphors, right? The last real dream he could really remember was...

There must be some kind of sickness in us, in humans. We know we shouldn’t but...well, we just can’t walk away, can we? This sickness, curiosity. A cruel prank by god, maybe. Or an evolutionary mechanism to get us to destroy ourselves. We stick our fingers in a dog’s mouth then act surprised when we get bit. We can’t turn our backs to the fire even as it melts our faces. We can’t leave well enough alone, we can’t just accept that some things aren’t meant to be seen, to be known. Yeah, even when we do know, we just have to see for ourselves to be sure, don’t we? Or maybe that’s just me, and I’m..ah, what’s the word…

John watched the movie, of course. The razor, the blood, the shower, the blur that was David, all there, all realer than real on that massive screen. He ripped the film from the projector, jamming and tangling the whole thing up. He called David. Tried to anyway, but David didn’t answer. He figured his friend had a late night or early night or whatever the hell kind of night it would take to make things okay. But John didn’t know that David would never answer a call again.

***

Interior, projection booth, midday. John is playing one of the summer’s box office hits for a packed audience. He pops in the second reel and gets ready for the switch. When the old reel runs out and the new one starts, the screen glows with morbid celluloid.

Razor, blood, shower, blur. John feels his body go cold from the inside out despite the heat. He sees every mistake he’s ever made, every regret he has, pass before him, and before the audience.

They watch as if nothing’s changed. John stands up and creeps toward the small glass porthole in the booth. He looks out over the patrons. He can’t quite make out any faces, but they’re all watching his worst fears intently. Then the bloody short ends and John appears on screen, standing in the projection booth, peering out the tiny window. John’s breaths are ragged, his mind racing through justifications for what’s happening, but there’s only one. He wipes the dripping sweat from his burning forehead and the John on the screen does too. He holds up his right hand and movie John follows. He trips backward, disoriented and sick to his core. John’s back slams into the projector as he stumbles. It falls, the film seizing up in its mechanism, and then shuts down.

The audience erupts in applause. John sits against the broken projector. His stomach’s churning something fierce. He can feel it tickling the back of his throat again. From his mouth pours black tape, technicolor nightmare ribbon, in spools on the floor. He pulls and retches as the film exits his body. The audience cheers. Curtains. Scene.

***

Now what was the lesson here? Was all that oddness just a dream? That would seem a bit cheap, wouldn't it? Or is John himself just a dream? Or, maybe, you’re the dream, and John’s the dreamer.

Well, I’ll leave it to you to figure out.

Did I say a story? I lied: I’ve got three. See, three's a good round number.

You know the myth of Sisyphus? Imagine you were cursed to push a boulder up a hill all day. When you get to the top, it rolls back down the hill and you have to start over again. Now repeat that forever. Imagine you had to grind away day after day, working yourself to dust for most of your waking hours. You had to toil and strain all your life for nothing. Just bearing the weight of that rock. The labors never cease. Camus imagined the absurdity of it all, figured sisyphus happy. I think based on experience, that's a load shit.

Now imagine someone came along and told you they’d let you switch places with the rock. You could finally relax, you could finally be on top. You could let someone else carry that weight for a while. I mean, someone’s gotta do it, right?

Do you think Sisyphus would take that offer? Would you?

All right, one more story. Last one, I promise.

There’s a dog all alone out in a field of broken corn stalks. He’s supposed to be hunting. But he sees something move behind him out of the corner of his eye. He spins around to catch it, but it’s gone. Then another flash of movement. He turns back and there’s still nothing there. He’s getting nervous now, his mouth hanging open, tongue lolling with each anxious pant. He stamps his feet into the dark earth and shakes. The movement comes back, but this time he waits. He’ll surely get it this time if he’s patient. His anticipation for the catch grows, his ears perk up. The thing behind him reveals itself. He spins in a tight circle and clamps down. Not quite as strong as the wolf, but there’s enough of the primal, ancient grit in him to kill. But what’s this? Whatever he’s caught is attached to him, coming directly from his hind quarters. He pulls, and feels the tug on his own back. It’s furry, and it smells familiar. He stands for a moment in that shattered field, tail in teeth. He’s forgotten what his purpose is. He tries to think of something all the way back, some instinct that runs in the blood of those who hunted mammoths and survived glacial flow, the fear of every human huddled in caves, huts, cabins. This isn’t what he’s supposed to be doing. There’s something else. But that thought is beyond him now. So he lets go his tail. Now he’s really gonna do what he’s told, what he’s trained to do.

Then the swish of something swaying behind him, a blur of gray or brown in his periphery, and it starts again.

Don’t go chasing your tail on a hunch or you’ll end up getting hurt. Stick to what you’re supposed to do. Some birds are just bigger than others, you know? Of course the big birds at the top of the feeder get their fill, but what they leave behind rains down on the sparrows and wrens below, and trickles down to even the lowest of birdkind. They all benefit if they stay in their places. Or so I've been told.

So which are you gonna be? The dog or the wren?

***

WREN: And with that, there’s only one piece of mail left in Conway’s inbox: the last letter on his to-do list the day he vanished. I suppose the backlog all recorded and archived, they’ll be sending me back to my original office next week. Or maybe they’ll keep me here a while to continue doing this. It’s hard not to wonder what happened, though. So many loose ends. I’m fighting nearly every instinct I have to look deeper, but I’ve been explicitly instructed not to do so--some might say threatened.

This has come to an inauspicious end, hasn’t it? Let’s see what this last letter has in store for us before we part.

It looks like a postcard, a little worn and discolored. On the front is a white lighthouse. The script below indicates it’s in Aisling, Ohio. And on the back is just one sentence. It reads:

Little Songbird,

That’s not your tail moving behind you. Bite, and don’t let go.

-Lucy

*off mic, shuffling, footsteps and a door closes*

WREN, muffled: Hey, Martinez, when did this one come in?

*unclear dialogue from a second person*

WREN: Are you certain?

*unclear dialogue*

WREN: Who flagged it?

*unclear dialogue*

WREN: No, no! Don’t get The Boss. This isn’t work-related, it’s...personal curiosity.

*unclear dialogue*

WREN: Actually could you let them know I’m done with Conway’s pile here. And I think I’m going to take a vacation. Thank you!

*sounds of sitting back at the desk*

WREN: I’ll find out what happened to you, Conway, directives be damned.

Now where the hell is Aisling, Ohio?

*out of fiction credits*

Hey everyone, it’s your host here. Just want to give a shoutout to all the lovely patrons that help make this show possible. So thank you to carriers Flo and Jessica, and to receiving clerks Gadz, Paul, Spicy Nigel, and Patricia and to everyone else sharing and supporting the show.

If you’d like to support the show and get your name in the credits like these fine folk, head on over to patreon.com/somewhereohio and sign up for one of the tiers there. Thank you again, and happy belated birthday, Nigel!

DLO 12: EARWORM/THE LAST VIDEO STORE

19 juli 2021 | 23 min

DLO 11: TAMAGOTCHI/THE DEAD MALL

28 juni 2021 | 33 min

A letter writer reminisces about his strange childhood pet. Conway explores the guts of an abandoned mall and finds someone he wasn't looking for. Wren gets chewed out for something they can't control.

(CWs: body horror, brief mention of violence and death, alcohol, dead animal, whispering, some strong language)

TRANSCRIPT:

Hello, this is Wren, claims adjuster for the Dead Letter Office of *******, Ohio. The following audio recording will serve as evidence for Conway’s case. Public release of this or any other evidence is strictly prohibited. Some names and facts have been censored for the protection of the office.

As we’ve previously established, forward and backward are not necessarily stable concepts. So let’s begin today by looking at the next letter in Conway’s backlog, which may give me insight into what happened to him.

Dead letter 14417, a long note written on several folded pieces of printer paper, sent by a Stephen ***** to his mother in late 2016. The letter reads as follows.

NARRATOR STEPHEN: Hey mom.

Did I ever have a pet growing up? I know dad never wanted one and then Dave was allergic. It’s getting harder to remember if this actually happened or if it’s a vivid dream that’s stuck with me through the years.

Before high school hit me like a semi truck, you’d let me bike up to the arcade at the Deerland Mall on the weekends.

LOUDSPEAKER: “WELCOME TO THE DEERLAND MALL, YOU’LL GO BUCK WILD FOR THESE DEALS! Our store hours are: 9am to 7pm” *slowly fades out*

NARRATOR: I remember the huge globe of stale gumballs loitering in the foyer. I’d chew on them even though I knew they were rock hard and would probably cut my gums up. Sorry about the quarters missing from your purse. Then I’d stop by the candy store and get a big bag of sweaty gummies that had been sitting in the foggy display case for god knows how long and a tall cherry coke from the concession stand.

The light gun shooters and fighting game cabinets there were cool enough, but my favorite was the racing game. It had a whole mock driver’s seat that moved side to side as you steered. It was also more expensive to play than the others, so I’m sorry about the missing dollar bills. Whatever change I had leftover after a few laps of hairpin turns went into the vending machine full of capsule toys. Since I couldn’t get a dog, I was desperate for one of those new Tamagotchi toys. But where was I gonna get a whole twenty dollars? Coincidentally, the top prize advertised on the machine was a bright blue Tamagotchi. I was old enough to know there was probably only one in there, if any at all. I knew I’d probably end up spending more than twenty dollars trying to get it, yet here I was pouring money down the slot anyway instead of saving it up to buy one.

On a particular lazy afternoon, the arcade was empty: not too uncommon for a summer weekday. I put two quarters in the slot on the capsule machine, twisted the tough old crank, and out dropped a peculiar toy. The capsule itself was identical to the others: a translucent plastic casing, a bubble with a colorful top that popped off. Almost like an acorn fallen from a petroleum tree. But what was inside the case gave me pause then, and still makes me uneasy today.

I cracked it open under the flickering lights of the arcade. Inside wasn’t a Tamagotchi, but rather an egg: bigger than a robin’s egg but about the same color with a few white spots, and surprisingly heavy for a toy its size. What’s a thirteen-year-old boy want with a plastic egg? Waste of 50 cents, I thought. I put it in its case and set it on top of the claw machine so I could go play a game about shooting aliens in area 51. I was winding down a blocky corridor when I heard something behind me. I had thought I was the only one in there. I froze, and a bead of prickly sweat rolled down my neck. I turned my head to the entrance of the arcade. Nobody there. I scanned the stained carpet for anything out of place. Spilled on the ground near the rusty change machine was the capsule I’d just won, split up as a cracked egg. The toy that was inside sat upright among the wreckage. I took a step closer, still gripping the orange gun tethered to the cabinet. The egg on the ground shook. A tiny wobble. I shut my eyes hard for a few seconds, inducing those familiar mental fireworks, then looked again. Another teeter.

I pointed the light gun at it and fired. Kid logic would state that if this toy came to life, it could similarly be brought down by a toy gun. By then my connection to kid logic was hanging on by a single synapse, constantly threatening to disappear from my thought patterns forever, on the precipice of the bigger, darker realizations that the adult world foists upon the unsuspecting teen.

Well, sometimes kid logic doesn’t hold up to real world testing anyway. But now this blue egg had my interest: it was a curiosity, an oddity, and nothing sparks the young imagination quite like oddity. I picked it up gingerly and put it under my baseball cap. Under the blinding sun outside I hopped on my bike and rode home.

Back at the house, I breezed past you and Dave without a word and stomped up the stairs. Looking at my prize in the familiar light of my room, it didn’t seem to be moving at all. Once again in the mundane, away from the caffeine surges and sugar crashes and flashing numbers, it was just a plastic egg. Maybe it had actually moved, or maybe I just really hoped it would. I set it on my bedside table and forgot about it for the rest of the day.

I woke up in the middle of the night to something scurrying around my room. I didn’t see it at first. Too dark, too small, too quick. I only heard the chattering and scuffling. I stood up on the bed and surveyed my room. There was something moving in the pile of dirty laundry in the corner. I crept over to the clothes and peered into the moving sleeve of my sweater.

Inside was a tiny, fleshy thing. No bigger than the palm of my hand, barely more than a tan blob with black eyes and a wide mouth. It had glommed onto a green army man I used to play with all the time, some years ago forgotten in the halting dust of my adolescent closet. It was gnawing on the soldier’s helmet, content with its prey. I reached in to gently pull the toy away, but it was hanging on with thin, fingerless limbs. Under its round body were small nubs planted firmly to the floor. When I managed to wrestle the toy away, it let out an odd chirp, like a strained baby bird.

The little guy was probably hungry. If it sounded like a bird and came from an egg like a bird, maybe it would eat like a bird. So I gathered some seeds and nuts from the pantry and scattered them in front of it. The thing poked around a bit with its probing mouth, but it didn’t seem that interested. Then it hit me: momma birds chew up the food for them when they’re young. I mashed a handful of peanuts around in my mouth and leaned over the blob to spit.

I’ll tell you it didn’t go well. I tiptoed to the darkened kitchen for some paper towels to clean the thing off.

When I returned to the pile of dirty laundry, the creature had found another favorite childhood possession: a blue gameboy game. I’d spent dozens of hours playing it to collect all the monsters, but I hadn’t touched in a while. The creature had the corner of the plastic cartridge in its mouth. I figured it probably couldn’t do much to damage the game, seeing as it didn’t have any teeth, so I let it gum on for while. Big mistake. It closed its mouth around the cartridge, and I heard a muffled snap. It set down the game, the corner roughly broken off and missing. The creature swallowed the chunk and chittered with joy. Arcade bird eats arcade games. Made sense at the time.

I brought it another game, a game I wouldn’t mind losing. The tiny blob ignored it and wandered over to my binder full of baseball cards. It ducked its head under the cover and started nibbling on the corner of my Ken Griffey Jr rookie card. I rushed over and pulled it away. Never have I been more thankful for a thin plastic sleeve.

So what did this thing want if not games? Well, after an hour or so of testing its palette, I had some promising results. My favorite gameboy game? Yes. My pillowcase? No. Baseball card? Yes. The small tv in my room? No. My lucky hat? Yes.

I slowly put together over that early morning that this creature only wanted to eat things I had an attachment to. It could sense my emotional connection to certain objects, and sought those out. I let it finish the game cartridge it had started eating since it was functionally useless now anyway. It seemed satisfied, and passed out in the laundry basket.

A few days went by. The creature wasn’t just a blob anymore: it had a bigger torso, longer front limbs, and extended legs. It looked more animal now and less like a ball of skin. I started calling it Creech, short for creature. Real original, right? Hey, I was thirteen, cut me some slack.

You remember the “imaginary friend” I would hang out with? That was Creech. We grew together for a time, though it much faster than me. It got taller, longer. Its head rounded out. Creech started standing mostly upright and used its fingerless arms to manipulate objects and simple tools. It would respond to my calls, and chatter back in a manner a parrot newly learning to speak might.

As its body grew, so did its hunger. There were only so many old toys and games around my room that it would eat, and only a few left that I was willing to part with. I couldn’t buy it food or sneak scraps from the kitchen, it wouldn’t touch them.

Lucky for us, late summer is garage sale season around here. So every muggy August morning, Creech and I hopped on my bike, the little guy barely concealed under my yellowing cap, and rode the neighborhoods searching for pieces of other people’s pasts. Yeah, you guessed it: sorry for the missing 20s.

A faded picture of a deceased husband. A ratty teddy bear from a relationship gone stale. Worn kid’s shoes. These things seemed to have an aura, some weight to them that Creech could sense, and it pointed me to the most potent objects: dated comics, grimy games, scratched records, vessels for fond memories ready to be consumed again.

We played together in the park, had pizza in the mall food court, won rigged games at the county fair. Creech was my secret pet, my friend. We spent the whole hot summer together, enjoying my last long days before high school started.

While Creech consumed these bittersweet artifacts that boiling summer, it started looking distinctly more humanoid. It grew rudimentary fingers, long toes. Creech stayed pretty hairless, and its eyes still stared endlessly, round and black. Its long mouth hung open, and took up the lower half of its face, sans nose. It was cute, in the way a pug’s cute. As the last days of August crawled sweatily on, Creech needed more to feed on, stronger emotions, objects loaded with more joy, or more pain. And it was almost up to my knee by then.

I felt the scratching of a bad idea at the back of my mind. An echo deep within a cave, or a fuzzy radio signal you can almost make out if you tune it right. A violent movie you can nearly see through the garbled static of a channel you’re not supposed to get. I looked at that screen for a moment, anxious but deeply curious. Could it feed on more than old toys and trinkets people used to love? Could it feed on a connection a little more...potent? Something a little more...living? But that signal was too garbled, too big for my mind at the time.

As the season’s credits started to roll, I reflected on my own past, on the people and things I used to care about so deeply. Why did I shove my stuffed animals in the closet? Why couldn’t I feel the same way watching Power Rangers that I used to? Somewhere deep inside, I felt my first blustery wave of nostalgia. I was about to transition to high school, another unskippable cutscene, another click up the rollercoaster, leading to the inevitable drop into adulthood. Into game over. I wanted to get off, to stop for a minute and really take in what I had--what I was--before then, but I was already past the platform. No getting off now, no slowing down. When you’re young, every moment is always ahead of you: the myriad loves, disappointments, triumphs, and failures are further up the track. It’s not until something’s behind you that you can anticipate how sweet it was, and how sweet it must stay.

Or maybe that’s how I see it now that I’m old, my perception of time stretching out and compressing. So many things I’ll never get back. How sweet it all seems now.

Mom, if I told you about Creech, I knew I’d be grounded, but I couldn’t keep feeding it alone. I didn’t see my teachers during summer break, and I thought the cops might kill it, or take it in for military study if I showed them. I couldn’t keep hiding it and hoping no one would get suspicious of a 13 year old boy constantly rifling through antique shops. It wasn’t fair to either of us. It was time to let go.

So Creech happily climbed into my backpack that simmering day like any other, one leg at a time, hungry and eager. It barely fit in there by then, even curled up, and it was getting heavy to carry around. We peddled out of town for a while, way out past where the asphalt veins break down into gravel arteries that wind around brutalist cornstalk ribs. Into the limitless moony analog heartland. Past where Old Lady Carruthers fed the stray cats that howled at her window every morning. Where the Baldridge brothers--who grew up good christian boys like their small town bigshot daddy--beat a guy half to death on Cottonwood Road cause he looked a bit funny. They ended up at Case Western. Where the adults turned to stone and the kids either left or drank and drank until their guts fell out and they fossilized too, because what else is there to do when the horizon ahead of you is so damn flat. Where I’d learned how to swim when I was 6, had my first real crush at 12, crashed my car into a pole at 17, left for a better life at 24 and came back at 30. Out where Creech had no clue that after today, we wouldn’t see each other again for 16 years.

We crossed Holcomb road and slowed beside the gray picket trees. I figured it’d be safe out here, no predators and plenty of space to roam and get big. I opened the backpack and let Creech out in the tall grass. It looked at me, then around at the rising branches and leaves. It hadn’t been this far out of town before, probably had no idea that trees got this tall or this plenty.

I pointed into the still gloamy woods, streaks of bloody sunset banding across our faces.

“Go on, bud. I can’t take care of you anymore.”

Creech simply stared at me. It saw the tears welling in my eyes, but didn’t know what they meant.

“Go!”

It winced, and said what was almost name, in the best way that its toothless mouth could. Sparse clouds painted contusions overhead in thick pink blocks. I wanted to stay here with it forever, to remember this for all time. I wanted to carve my initials into the support beam. But if I stayed much longer, I’d never leave, and we might get spotted. I pulled my hat low against the burning punctured yolk of sun dripping yellow across the field. I straddled my bike and sped off in a cloud of dusty stone, leaving Creech alone and unmoored in Holcomb Woods.

Mom, I have to confess something. I’m not just writing to check up on you or jaw on endlessly about my childhood. See Creech came back today. I saw it out behind the Green’s house, eyeing their precious terrier through the screen door. Then it saw me. Creech got big. Real big. It looks different from before, too. When it was treated well and eating our stuff, it started looking like us: human. But its eyes are harder, its posture more hunched and bestial.

I had hoped that writing this out would imbue the letter with enough feeling to pack a real punch for it. But Creech isn’t buying it. Creech wants something more. Now that I’m done, I’m actually having a hard time remembering what I wrote. Guess I wore myself out getting flowery near the end, huh. Seeing Creech brought up so many memories, but it’s hard to think. What was I saying?

Well anyway, I’ve got a last ditch, hail mary idea. Something that might have enough ambient nostalgia to sate it: the Deerland Mall. With its shuttered storefronts, empty theaters, and abandoned junk, there ought to be enough memory impressions and lingering ghosts of the past for it to stay full for years.

Now it’s hungry, mom. Real hungry. I don’t think it’ll hurt me, it remembers me. But I’m not sure it’ll have the same courtesy for others. That reminds me...

Wait. What was I thinking of? Keeps happening today. Brain zaps. I’m remembering something then Creech is there and it’s gone. Ah, nevermind.

All my love,

Stephen

WREN: While I can’t intuit a direct line from the content of this letter to Conway’s disappearance, I have to wonder if the theme of this story is relevant here. A thing once fondly recalled has been twisted and offered for consumption. Something dark within revealed. I believe I have some insight into Conway’s headspace the day he left. He was remembering something. But memory can be treacherous. If you bring the wrong thing back from the past, you can alter your life forever.

I suppose we’ll keep this letter in our vault for the time be--

*old phone rings*

WREN: Oh.

*Wren answers the phone*

WREN: H-hello?

*Static on the other line*

WREN: Is anyone there? *whispered* Conway?

*phone hangs up*

WREN: I guess it was a wrong number.

CONWAY:

I arrived at the dilapidated shopping center thirsty and weary. Lettering on the facade indicated that this was the Deerland Mall, though most of the letters in Deerland had been busted or stolen by wayward youth, leaving only “the D E A D Mall.” The glass doors were rusty at the hinges, covered in reaching fingers of ivy. The signs plastered to the glass had been bleached almost white by the sun. About as good a natural “do not enter here” signal as it gets.

The doors weren’t locked but they did take a bit of doing to open. The place wasn’t in much better shape on the inside either. Most of the lights overhead were burnt out. The foyer--or is it foy-ay?--was gently illuminated by some waning daylight peeking in through the glass ceiling. Something crackled over the speakers.

*Mall greeting from earlier plays, but glitched out*

CONWAY: A huge gumball machine sat in the center of the open area, still half full of candy. The treats had lost a lot of their luster, but to their credit they still looked edible. Lord knows what chemicals made that possible. In front of the machine was a coin operated carousel of shabby horses. The steed in front had an anguished look on its face, you know the kind of wild expression horses get sometimes, where their lips curl up in a grimace. It’s gaze was aimed backward, desperately trying to look behind it. As if it was being...pursued. I poked my head around and looked at the other horses on the ride; all of them were similarly horrified by something behind them. But they went in a circle. So. Huh.

A sign on the coin repository read: “Money changer in the game room.” Below that someone had crudely written in sharpie “game changer in the money room.” Okay, Banksy, calm down.

Beyond this pale circle of light near the entrance, the abandoned corridors were pitch black besides an occasional flicker from whatever animating force remained in the few viable bulbs.

I fished out my phone. No reception, but I could at least use its flashlight and maybe see where I was going. I pulled the map out of my back pocket and shone my phone’s light on its faded surface. Down the central strut, past an arcade and a shuttered JC Penny was the mall security office. I hoped there’d be some tools there to get this briefcase off my wrist, and if nothing else it was a decent place to hole up for the night. I led with the LED light and crept down the dark, damp corridor. The tiles overhead were blackened in large circles with water damage and mold. No doubt loaded with enough asbestos to shred my lungs just by looking at ‘em. You’ll go buck wild for these deals, indeed.

I walked by a play place on my left that blinked with dim light. “Come play in Bucky’s World” the dingy sign said in three different fonts. A reeking odor from the place gut punched me and halted my breath. Fetid water stood covering the cheap linoleum flooring, and grime oozed up the legs of kid’s chairs and slides. The stars and stripes dangled limply in the stillness of the scene. Salty choking stench spilled from the playroom as flies buzzed around a deer’s head decomposing in the middle of the puddle. Come play.

Being in this place called to mind my own, very different experiences of my local mall. Went almost every weekend to see movies with friends once I was old enough to drive. But unless you were looking for dated clothes or illegal firearms and shady sports memorabilia, there wasn’t much there anymore. I can still remember the smell, though. The way voices echoed off the high ceilings. The scratchy fabric of the theater seats. The gaudy carpeting, somehow always sticky with something. My first kiss in the parking lot after a matinee. It was all flooding back at once, stronger than usual, one image, one scent connecting to another. Packs of japanese pokemon cards, uncomfortable slacks, greasy pepperoni pizza. These vivid memories here cracked open and rotting like a black tooth.

And that’s when I heard something moving in a vacant storefront. A weird slapping and squeaking, close to bare skin dragging on tile. I had hoped maybe it was an old couple on their usual morning mall walk, I guess barefoot, amazing what the mind will conceive to paper over reality. I turned the direction of the noise and shone the flashlight into the room.

It was an old arcade. Most of the machines missing, leaving a brighter spot on the wall where they stood. A claw machine sat crumpled near the entrance. Through the cracked glass case, I could see a few mildew-covered plushes laying face-down like waterlogged corpses in a lake. The floor was littered with these empty plastic capsules. In the rear was a storage room. The door was hanging open. I pointed the light that way and saw a broken face. It was yellow, missing a rounded ear, with cracks up its face and under its black eyes. It was reaching into a jar of something. Was it...honey? This was a busted winnie the pooh ride that must have been shoved into storage before the mall closed. Something else was on the edge. A long fleshy hand gripping onto the plastic exterior. From inside the ride rose a thin, reedy thing. Half-human, with spindly limbs, a bulbous head. Its toothless mouth was dangling impossibly low. It stood probably twice my height, and stretched a leg over the rim. I didn’t stay long enough to see the rest of it. A guttural screech echoed through the mall. It almost sounded like language, but I couldn’t understand it. I turned tail and ran.

Something boomed over the loudspeaker.

MAN OVER THE LOUDSPEAKER: “When the twilight is gone, and no songbirds are singing, God comes through the lines and sits in the streetlights. He waves but you can’t see it. Should we all be so lucky as to be touched by the waving man in the light.”

CONWAY: The fluorescent bulbs in the play place across the hall flashed. Now the deer head rose from the rancid pool, hanging skin and nylon flag draped like vestments across the bone, exposed teeth stark dealership white. In its wake were shadowy figments, jittering out of the bulbs overhead in bursts of sickening light. Their forms were sketchy, vibrating lines. One reached a palm my way and buzzed like a guitar plugged in wrong. Come play in Bucky’s World. I could feel my chest aching as it drew closer, a lightning bolt salvation. Come play.

I was sprinting now, holding tight to the damn empty briefcase as it flopped and bounced at my side with each step. I was heading straight for the security office. Are mall cops allowed to have guns? For the first time in my life I hoped they did.

I wound down a narrow side path, avoiding the public restrooms and pay phone covered in stickers, the buzzing and wheezing following close behind. At the end was an office. I struggled with the sweaty doorknob for a minute, then slammed my shoulder into the door and stumbled into the room.

Gone was the miasma of mildew and lucid nightmare. The gentle two-tone mint and white walls invited me in. The door shut behind me with a click, and the commotion outside ceased. The office was small and tidy. In the center was a wooden desk accompanied by a lacquered chair. A pristine rotary phone sat atop the table, warping the spacetime around and drawing menacing attention like a gravity well. A corkboard sat centered behind the desk, with a couple old flyers and a key ring pinned to it. I moved to the desk and slid open the side drawers. No guns, but I did find a lockpick and got to work on the cuffs. Not 5 minutes and they were off, and the briefcase dropped to the carpet.

I rubbed my sore wrist and looked around the office again. That damn phone, inescapable, ringing in my head. A barn on fire on a moonless night. I kicked around a thought. Maybe if a phone got me into this, another could get me out. I picked up the sleek mint receiver and dialed the number I had called before, my old phone number, with a trembling hand. I waited and waited and listened. Nothing. Hm. Maybe in a better story it would have worked.

What about my office number? Maybe someone was filling in for me today. I gave it a shot, but all I heard was some static. Then the line cut out.

While this little office seemed relatively safe, I couldn’t just hang out in here forever. Especially if those things were still outside. I pored over the old map again and planned out my best route to the exit from here. It was going to be a close one.

I crept out through the door and toward the end of this narrow hallway. Didn’t see any sign of the things that were pursuing me earlier. Of course that’s always what they say right before they get got, huh.

A screech rang out from the stinking guts of the gangrenous mall. More volleys of low droning from the other way, the dissonant warning bell of place already dead, that doesn’t know it’s dead yet. An air raid siren from a collapsed empire.

I took off in the direction of my planned route. But you know what they say about god and plans. The sinewy flesh giant was already nearly on me by the time I crossed the peeling wildlife mural in the kid’s food court. In a desperate attempt at distraction, I threw the old magazine I’d been navigating by into what used to be a pretzel store, if the tattered twisty signage was anything to go by. The creature suddenly turned and leapt over the high counter with its long limbs to gnaw on the coupons and photos inside.

I still had yet to contend with the shaking shadows and the offal deerhead priest. I was puffing and winded. I rounded the last corner on my route and felt my stomach sink. Rather than a door out of there, I found a closed gate. They must have built an addition to the mall since that magazine came out. Nothing can ever just stay the same here, can it? Gotta always be growing, always making more, and more than more. Or maybe the mall did this itself, continued to slink and slither through the clogged arteries of the midwest even after everyone left.

The hairs on my neck stood cornstalk straight and goosebumps sprouted across my arms. My chest tightened from the electric pull of the visions behind me. There was a sharp hot pain in my core, as if my heart was about to catch fire and burn hollow. A barn ablaze deep in the indigo dusk.

The decaying godhead wreathed in stars stretched its exposed tendons as if to speak.

*incomprehensible whispers*

That’s when the gate in front of me rose, with the clanking, grinding brash of machinery that’s sat dormant too long. I was baptized by a deluge of corporate light. Blue and yellow franchise lettering plastered the walls, below which hung shelves lined with black tapes. A man sat behind a counter, surrounded by rows of rainbow candy boxes and expired popcorn on sale. A video store. He motioned for me with a fishing rod in hand.

“Come on in, Conway, and come quick. I’ve got something that might interest you.”

WREN: Now that I’m done cataloguing my findings for the day, I’d like to take a moment to acknowledge the people who make all this possible. Thank you to our brave carrier Flo, and to our wonderful receiving clerks Jessica and Gadz. For the Dead Letter Office of ******* Ohio, this is claims adjuster Wren signing off.

*click*

*off mic*

WREN: Oh, hi. I didn’t see you come in.

*static from The Boss*

WREN: No, I’m done.

*dissonant static*

WREN: No, look, it’s fine, the light’s off. Hey, I got a call earlier that might--

*static*

WREN: Did I do something wrong? I get the feeling that you--

*intense static*

WREN: Right. Well if anything like that happens again, I’ll--I’ll report it to you right away. Okay. I’ll just...keep reading the old mail then.

*long static*

WREN: See you then.

WREN: Might as well not even have me here if this is all I’m allowed to do. How am I supposed to do my job if I just sit here and read all day and get yelled at for answering a phone? I could use a drink. Maybe I’ll head to the Song B--

Oh shit. The mic’s still h--.

*CLICK*

DLO 10: SONG BIRD

7 juni 2021 | 33 min

Previously...

Receiving Clerk Conway was asked to look into an angel statue and a missing mail carrier named Kenji on behalf of the Dead Letter Office. During the investigation, Conway encountered a strange lost fisherman and some odd postcards with unsettling connections to his past. After finding Kenji's body holding a phone, Conway called the phone number on one of the postcard and received some disturbing information: he couldn't recall his own last name, and realized he was being set up. And what did the lost fisherman mean when he said Conway isn't real? At least not yet?

Now, a new face has arrived at the DLO to sort through the mess Conway left behind: claims adjuster Wren is on the case. On their first day at the office, karaoke night at a dive bar turns weird and Conway finds himself somewhere he shouldn't be.

Some lyrics from Once in a Lifetime by Talking Heads

"Fool" originally by Frankie Cosmos

(CWs--mild spoilers: birds, bugs, brief blood, alcohol, smoking, brief harassment, very mild body horror, some strong language, romance?)

TRANSCRIPT:

CONWAY ON TAPE:...gonna pick up the phone and dial this number.

WREN: Now you’ve heard everything I have. Conway’s vanished, leaving only a trail of disconnected audio memos for me to follow. His last known location was here, at the Dead Letter Office of ******* Ohio. He was supposedly asked to investigate a large package in some other post office, but the DLO has no record of this request, and no idea where he went.

Hello, I’m--wait, am I supposed to introduce myself, or is this more of a formal...Okay.

Then let’s start at the beginning, where I come in. I want to be as thorough as possible. No loose ends.

I had just hung up a bird feeder on the front porch. I like watching all the little birds stop by. The robins, the jays, the sparrows, their colorful plumage and vibrant songs. They take turns plucking seeds out of the holes in the cylinder and sing their small hearts out.

It was an afternoon, still a little chilly. Summer hadn’t quite hit full swing. A couple of Carolina Finches were pecking at the small bugs and shells left by their brethren on the concrete. The birds weren’t aware of the hawk landing in the tree behind them. They’re not aware of the movements of empires, the fluctuations of markets that destroy their homes. They only see what’s in front of them: the sky to the ground, the egg to the dirt, is now. A moment later and the raptor descended on the surprised prey in a flurry of chirps and flaps. The small birds scattered in a panic, one slammed into the window then took off and the other found itself tangled in the freshly torn mesh on my screen door. Having missed its chance, the hawk turned, soaring far out over the houses down the block. None of these birds would be lunch that day.

This was a relief. I didn’t want to see my visitors get eaten. I mean, I eat chicken already, it’s not all that different, but I still feel bad for the little birds. I figure if I were an animal, I’d be like them, picking at seeds and singing my little song. Noteworthy to those paying attention, but a background detail--a bit player in the grand scene--to others. Realistically, though, I could just as easily be a hawk. Hungry, waiting patiently on the sidelines for my chance, disliked by most. Reaching out and missing. Chronic bad luck.

I heard my phone buzz on the coffee table, but I had to get this finch out of my screen first. I opened the heavy door and found the thing flapping and screeching, its foot caught in the screen. I gently unwrapped the fabric from its leg, despite its vociferous protestations, and it burst free, tearing through the air to join its friends on the telephone wire.

I went back in and answered the call. It was the DLO. I was being transferred to some nowhere post in Ohio. Supposedly a temporary assignment, though I guess they all are in the long run. There was a case there that needed an expert’s opinion. They always manage to have the worst timing.

Yes, if I were an animal, I’d probably be the scrappy songbird. Or maybe the hawk. Or maybe I’m just the beetle lodged in the finch’s beak, surrounded by a vast unknowable world, an ocean of interconnected things and events totally beyond my comprehension, then summarily devoured without a second thought.

*Intro music*

WREN: Hello, I’m Wren, claims adjuster for the Dead Letter Office. I’m here to determine if Conway disappeared on the job, and to judge if the DLO is required to make an insurance payout to his next of kin. I’ll be examining his audio memos and the dead mail backlog in his inbox for any clues as to his whereabouts.

The following audio recording will serve as evidence for his case. Public release of this or any other evidence is strictly prohibited. Some names and facts have been censored for the protection of the office.

Now in cases like this, it’s important to take in more than just the events. I need a feel for the atmosphere, the scene, the anxieties. I need to understand not only where Conway is but how he is. And how he got there. What was ahead of him in his work pile may have influenced what was in front of him: the past outlines the future, and the future colors the past.

So with this simple understanding that what’s to come is sometimes the driver of what was in mind, let’s begin with the next piece in Conway’s backlog. Dead Letter 17216. This was found on a review website, written by a civilian named Mel. An unconventional entry to be sure, fitting for an unconventional case. She wrote the following:

MEL: "And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife. And you may ask yourself, "Well... how did I get here?"

Friday night, dive bar on the north side of town. Easy to miss from the outside, unmistakable inside.

Like nearly every friday, I pushed through the swinging door and was enveloped in neon light and pulsating music. I was cleansed of my stress by giving in to song, to cheering along and dancing arm in arm, to reunions and meetups. Friday is karaoke night at the Song Bird, the premier queer dive and diy venue in town. Stickers for a thousand defunct bands with names like “Two Dog Folly” and “Slumgrinder” cover the walls and pillars. Even if all they did was play a couple house shows in the fall of 2013 before disbanding, their legacy will live on here, until it’s composted in the churn of revolving vinyl and covered by hopeful new names and faces sprouting forth from the paper loam. Local artists hang their weird paintings up for sale, and greasy food simmers in the kitchen in the back. On karaoke night at the Bird, I’m alive. It’s the one time each week I get to pretend there’s something more to my boring life, more to me, than the usual routine. To reach out for something, anything beyond ordinary. Or to drop the poetic language for a while, I like to blow off steam after work by singing really loud at strangers.

I came in that friday, and a woman I’d seen a few times before was sitting in the last booth. She had been coming to the Bird for a few weeks, but never met up with anyone, never sang, never even said hello as far as I could tell. She would quietly watch people sing and pick at the duct tape on the peeling plastic booth before leaving without a word.

What was her deal? She had jet black hair, the kind that’s almost blue or green in this light or that. Big dark eyes. Always wearing a black choker with a little pendant on it. I assumed the whole mysterious silent thing was intentional, part of her vibe. So on this sweltering august evening, I was going to find out exactly what her deal was, and maybe finally have something interesting in my life.

It was slow at the Song Bird that night despite the weather. The bar was only half-full by 11. I had just finished my second song, and saw the woman in black head out the back door where the smokers congregate to shoot shit and blow smoke. I stepped off stage and went out for a smoke, too.

And there she was, looking up at the moon and taking in the hot summer air. Someone else was under the awning, letting out a plume of vapor into the sky. The woman in black turned my way. Her hair shimmered under the tangerine light as she moved. I locked eyes with her, but her gaze was intense, her eyes absorbing all light and thought. I hesitated. Her attention was almost too much.

MEL: “Smoke?” I managed to spit out as I fished for the gold pack in my bag. She gently nodded.

I told her I’d seen her a few weeks in a row now, but I never heard her sing. She pursed her lips, and spoke softly.

AVERY: “I don’t really like being on stage like that. I’m just here to listen.”

I had an eerie feeling I’d heard her voice before, but I couldn’t place it. Did I actually know her and I just couldn’t remember it? Because God, that would be embarrassing.

MEL: “You sound so familiar. Do you know Jackie, maybe?”She said she gets that a lot, and the corner of her mouth inched upward into a slight smile. I finally grabbed hold of my pack. I pulled out a cigarette and lit it, inhaling deeply. I grabbed another and held it between my fingers, offering it out in her direction. A lock of her hair fell onto her cheek as she leaned forward. She swept the dark strand back behind her ear, where it hung just partway down her neck below dangling silver earrings. Her parted lips touched the cigarette. I was about to let go and offer the lighter when her teeth clamped down, snapping the cigarette neatly in half. She tilted her head back, half of the thing still in her mouth, her form illuminated by the incandescent glow above. She swallowed it, then looked back at me. The half-eaten cigarette fell from my limp hand. My mouth was hanging open, my own cigarette stuck to my lip and smouldering. I gawked at her for a moment, just totally stunned. The woman behind me tucked her vape into her pocket and hurried inside. A section of ash that had been building up fell, and I realized I’d been holding my breath. I let it all out at once with a cough. I held the pack out to her with a shaky hand.

MEL: “Okay, uhhm do you want another?” I wasn’t sure if I was joking.

She held up her hand politely and shook her head, as if she was declining an hors d'oeuvre, and not like she had just eaten a cigarette out of my hand. I took another drag, and then stomped it out under my boot.

I was feeling a little light headed. She was a little bit taller than me, in a black skirt with matching tights and collared shirt. I asked her name. She said Avery. I opened the door for us to head back in.

MEL: “Well, Avery, I’m Mel. I’d love to hear you sing some time.”

I smiled and gave her the awkward finger guns I do when I’m nervous, then turned to go back inside. The dizzy purple stage lights and sneering guitars dazed me as I entered, and also conveniently masked the look on my red face. I heard a rush of air, peered back through the closing door, and she was gone.

Next week a group of friends and I walked to the Song Bird. I was fidgeting with my lighter in my jacket pocket the whole way. I was secretly hoping to see Avery there again, despite what had happened last time. It was a strange first impression, sure, but a strong one. When we got there, she was in her usual spot, cool and collected. I tried to play it cool, too. I nodded and waved as we walked by, my lighter tucked between my thumb and palm. Her eyes intently followed the shining metal as it moved. Then she blinked hard a few times and gave a brief wave back. I asked her if she was going to sing tonight. She looked down at the table and tucked her hair behind her ear. She ran a fingertip along her neck and gave some noncommittal answer. I told her she could join us any time, if she wanted to.

A few drinks and a few songs in, the bar was pretty packed. I pushed my way through the crowd at the counter to get a refresher when I saw two men near Avery in my periphs. One was resting against the table and pointing at her necklace. She looked uncomfortable. I took a sip of my new drink, slammed a few dollars on the bar, and jostled through the dancing throng in her direction. The guy pressed one hand on the table and leaned over her. He reached for the black ribbon around her neck with his other hand. She physically recoiled, but he didn’t move. I shoved my way through the crowd and yelled over the tone-deaf crooner on stage.

MEL: “Leave her the fuck alone!”

The men looked up with a start, then chuckled when they saw me, small, alone. I glanced toward the bartender. He understood. He slowly made his way out from behind the bar and toward the table. The guy hassling Avery held his hands up. The two of them scoffed and slurred under their breath as they left through the swinging door.

MEL: “God, Sorry Avery,” I spoke loudly over the woozy atmosphere. I asked her to sit with us. She didn’t seem to be listening. Instead, she furrowed her brow and her eyes lit up. She rose, then swung the door open and stepped out. I could see the two jerks loitering under the chalky streetlight. The door swung back, and I could see her approaching them. A shorter swing outward and they had some kind of twisted up look on their faces, but I could only see the back of Avery’s head. As the door did its final bow and closed, they were running, screaming. I swore I saw streaks of red running down their faces. But again, a few drinks in and a few songs in, so...

Then in stepped Avery, calmly adjusting her choker and dusting off her skirt. She gave me a nod and followed me to where my friends were sitting. I introduced her to the crew. When she spoke, one of my karaoke pal--Sam--gave me a weird side-eye. I shrugged it off. Avery’s chill, I thought, they’ll figure it out. She’s a little eccentric, maybe, but cool. She’s got her own thing going. Kind of jealous, honestly. I don’t think I have a really distinct vibe or unique look, but Avery certainly did. I wanted to be like that, to be like her. Or was it be with her. I don’t know.

Samantha was looking at me as I stared off into the projector. They thought I’d said something, swore they heard my voice.

Sam asked Avery what she does. Sam, you angel, you knew I was desperate to learn more about our mystery woman.

AVERY: “Oh I uh...collect things. I fly pretty often, too.”

Ah, a trust fund kid. I should have known. You don’t usually stay that effortlessly hot working the graveyard at Wendy’s.

Before I could learn much more, it was my turn at the mic. Avery stopped me for a second. As I stood up, her nimble fingers pulled some unseen fuzz out of my hair. I tried to thank her but my throat went dry for some reason.

And then I was up on stage, yelling about yearning or anarchy depending on the night, and my friends were on their feet, mingling and swaying. Avery was still sitting among the empty chairs. She was watching me, bathed in swirling dots of light, now pink, now blue. Her lips were moving slightly along with the lyrics. I shut my eyes and belted out a chorus. When I looked into the crowd again, Avery was gone. Afterwards, my friends said she had to go. Early morning. Bummer.

Next week, the booth at the back was empty. I gotta be honest, I was disappointed, but not too surprised. Nothing interesting ever happens to me. She was too good for me, anyway. She’s probably out doing something cool, maybe with a boyfriend. Another work week slurry slipped by, and we checked into the Song Bird again.

I hit the notes, but my heart wasn’t really in it. When you’re doing karaoke, heart’s what matters. No one’s here for a concert, they want to sing along to the fun songs they know. If you get up and do some jokey track or esoteric stuff, everyone’s gonna think you’re a jackass. You have to be sincere. And wow did I turn achingly sincere when I saw Avery filter through the crowd mid-Blondie song.

She stood and hopped back and forth among the rippling crowd and vivid afterglow. I pointed to Avery as I recited the lyrics, and she beamed and turned a little red. It didn’t last, though. She winced, and her fingertips felt for the ribbon on her neck. She darted out back. I pulled Jackie on stage and handed off the mic.

I trailed after her. I didn’t want her to slip away again. I pushed through the back door. The air was heavy and hot on my skin. I asked if she was okay.

She was facing away from me under the awning. Around us, the city was busy with late summer reverie. I heard firecrackers somewhere a couple blocks away, and sickly houses lining the road overflowed with rancid frat energy.

AVERY: “I just...I don’t know why I came back. I shouldn’t be here. YOU shouldn’t be here, with me.”

I started to ask why, but she didn’t look like she wanted to answer. She just studied the gravel under feet and her hand went instinctively to her neck.

MEL: “Whatever it is, it’s fine. I just shouted bad french at a room full of strangers. Do I look like I have shame? It doesn’t matter if you’ve got a bunch of dirty money or a boyfriend or whatever, I’m not here for that.”

I gently took her arm. Her skin was a little clammy despite the heat, but she didn’t withdraw.

MEL: “Let’s go. I think it’s just about your turn...if you’re comfortable.” I didn’t want to pressure her, but I figured it may do her some good, help her break out of her shell.

She sighed. Her shoulders sank. She kicked a few pebbles near her feet.

AVERY: “Okay, one song.”

I led her by the arm back into the bar. I gave her a small card and pen in case she really did want to request a song. We sat together quietly for a while, me throwing back my fizzy drink and her slowly dipping her head down to take tiny sips at her dark concoction. Eventually, I saw her covertly write something on the card and sneak off to deliver it to the host.

Samantha whispered something to me when Avery was out of ear shot. Sam had apparently just figured something out. They saw Avery at Queen of Cups a couple months ago and thought she sounded just like this other girl. Some asshole who always did like 7 minute songs there. Hadn’t seen her in a while though. Then they said something that made me uneasy.

They said that Avery sounded just like me now, but...quieter. I didn’t quite understand, or didn’t want to. I thought she sounded weirdly familiar, but really? Me? No way. Jackie leaned over Sam’s shoulder, and confirmed it.

I stared at the small glass in my hand, or rather through the glass, through the smudged tile floor, through the concrete foundation laid sometime in 1996, through the dirt and the fossilized skeletons of extinct things slowly rotting into fuel for our own extinction, through the earth’s burning anxious core, and stopped just short of actual introspection.

They shut up when Avery made her way back and drank the dregs of her cocktail. I bought her next drink.

The hazy dayglo hands of time crawled on drunk toward the inevitable cursed sunrise, until I heard the host announce the next singer. It was Avery. She looked like she didn’t expect to actually have to sing. I told her I’d do it for her if she felt like backing out, but instead, she asked me to hold her drink and hopped on stage.

Avery stood awkwardly behind the microphone. The drum machine kicked in, the speakers rattling the bottles around the bar with every quaking bass and twinkling cymbal. She held onto the mic stand, her feet close together. Then came the seismic synth, bubbling up from some deep unknown. She swayed gently along to the music, her black skirt sweeping site to side.

The lyrics came up on the backdrop. She took a deep breath on the last rest and pulled the mic close to her mouth. Too close. It bumped into her chin, and feedback squealed through the bar. Surprised by the sudden shriek, she shoved the mic away. But the pendant on her silk choker was caught on the microphone. The ribbon tore from her neck and fell to the stage floor. I saw the small charm glint in the stage light. It was a silver feather. She reached for it so fast I could hardly register what was happening. But something was already in her hand. Something dark.

No, not in her hand. Coming FROM her hand. A black feather. Then several more. They sprouted from her skin, ran up her arm and rose above the collar of her shirt. They burst forth and covered her body almost entirely in downy black, slowing in a ring along the edge of her neck where the choker once was. Her black shoes split open, revealing four sharp talons. She screamed and backed away. The music thrummed and wobbled in the background. I looked sharply to my left and right, maybe for help or maybe just for confirmation that I wasn’t losing my mind. But the patrons were no longer around us, and the rest of the bar beyond the stage seemed to vanish entirely before me. It was just Avery, the microphone, and me under the spiraling multicolor spotlights and crashing cymbals. She hid her face in her newly formed wing and shouted.

AVERY: “GO!”

I didn’t budge.

AVERY: “Well? Are you not afraid? Is this not when you call me a monster? I told you you shouldn’t be near me! And you were concerned about wealth. I...I only watched you sing so I could take your pretty voice. Every month, I must roam the city, seeking tongues to add to my collection or else be silenced. I stole your song! Don’t you get it? I’m a beast, a thing that shouldn’t exist, cursed to sing a thousand songs in a thousand voices but never my own. So run now, while you can, and never speak of me, never think of me again.”

She was towering above me now, her voice--I guess my voice?--echoed through the room.

AVERY: “Fine, if you won’t go on your own, Mel, then I’ll make you.”

She stepped toward me, her claws smashing into the stage and sending splinters flying. She spread her wings, easily twice my height. She was angry, but she was shaking. There was something more there, wasn’t there? This wasn’t just about stealing my voice or whatever. She was afraid.

I moved toward the stage. I reached up and took the tip of her soft wing in my hand. Time to call her bluff.

MEL: “Avery...you have to understand...this just makes you even cooler. Have you ever heard of Howl’s Moving Castle?”

She tilted her head. She didn’t know what to say. So I climbed onto the stage beside her. Tears streamed down her face in lines of streaky black eyeliner and trickled into the down where her shoulders used to be.

MEL: “Nevermind, come on, let’s finish the song. I’ll do it with you.” I started moving to the music, clapping and faking my way through the lyrics to a song I didn’t know very well.

She locked eyes with me again, and there was her deadly gaze. It made my knees feel weak. Made me feel like I was the only person in existence. Then she let out a bitter laugh. She sidled close as we shared the mic and closed out the track, shoulder to wing.

As the last of the twinkling keys faded out, I picked up her choker and held it out to her. She motioned with her head at her wings and looked apologetic. Ah, no hands. Right. I wrapped the smooth black silk around her. My heart jumped into my throat. My mouth was dry. She looked down at me and spoke softly.

AVERY: “And I don’t have a boyfriend.”

As I finished tying the ribbon, I pulled her close and kissed her.

As the black band closed around her neck, the talons receded, the feathers disappeared in a whirlwind and she was once more the mysterious girl in black. The bar materialized before us, and my friends cheered in the audience. They apparently hadn’t seen any of what just happened. I pulled away from her lips, feeling a little on the spot now. I stepped off the stage and helped Avery down. We got back to our chairs and sat in the pulsing silence.

She looked terribly exhausted but I was humming with adrenaline. She rested her head on my shoulder. Her dark hair unspooled from behind her ears in circles, like minutes dripping ever onward into pools of dusky hours on that buzzing summer night.

That was a year ago, and we’ve been dating since. Sure, cleaning up the feathers can be a pain. Yeah, sometimes she’ll mimic my friends or enemies to get a rise out of me. And it can be hard to pull her away from the mirror when I need it in the morning. Yes, she loves to preen. I file her talons and she paints my nails. Never a dull moment.

Mom is pretty chill about it, dad doesn’t really get it. You know, usual relationship stuff.

And I’ve never been happier.

Anyway, 4 / 5 stars for the Song Bird, would recommend, just wish the bathroom wasn’t missing ceiling tiles.

Melody’s review on Ye**

WREN: Nothing to be found here relating to the disappearance, unfortunately, but I think I do have a deeper understanding of this office itself. It’s lively, unpredictable. Prone to kick or bite. An unsteady bridge over a raging river. Why did you stick your hand in the current, Conway?

I believe the higher ups will also want to take a look at this. I’ve scrubbed all information surrounding this review from the site. I will forward a printout to the appropriate parties for further investigation by the DLO. As a side note, I have also bookmarked the Song Bird’s address for...independent study later.

OUTRO

CONWAY: The winged creature stood before me, wreathed in smoke. It didn’t speak, but my mind was nevertheless flooded with images and sounds: a small town, waves breaking on the shore, an old mall, a video store, a lighthouse turned upside down, a hand reaching through the dark, a busy signal, a cave.

After the smoke cleared, I shook my head, and the thing was gone. I coughed and went to cover my mouth, but found more resistance on my arm than expected. I looked down and saw a briefcase handcuffed to my right wrist. Old battered tan leather, heavy as all hell, with one of those little three number locks. I spun the dials around a few times, trying all the obvious numbers and then the funny ones (I’ll leave which those were to your imagination). I was hoping through sheer luck it would pop open, but no dice. The woods were dark, and I could hear the crickets singing in the tall grass around me. The foliage overhead was too thick to see the stars, and I had no phone or compass on me. I couldn’t just stay there, so I heaved the briefcase up and started walking in...some direction.

My mind still felt a little hazy, and the chilly air nipped at the raw skin under the cuff. I wandered around the woods for some time, no trails and no end to be found. Eventually I came upon a clearing, and in the center of that clearing was a red leather chair. Little cuts and dirt scattered its surface, some various grasses and vines growing up its legs. It looked like it had been out here a while. On the seat was a puffy little bird. It was tearing long strands of paper out of some old magazine. I approached slowly, and the bird didn’t seem to scare. It took one of the long shreds of paper up into a nearby tree. I reached for the magazine. A cheap local publication, now soiled and sun-bleached, advertising all of the amazing stores and products on offer at a new mall. A grand opening. The date on the cover was 1980-something. I flipped through the remaining pages, crinkled and stiff as they were from being soaked and dried over time. Pretty typical stuff inside: an arcade, a theater, a Sears. The last page caught my attention, though. It was a blown out photocopy of one of those mall maps. You know, a little star saying “you are here” and everything. But the star wasn’t in the mall like usual, it was outside, among some clip art trees. I was getting mighty thirsty by then, and had no real clue where I was going. This map was my best bet, so I rolled it up and stuck it in my back pocket.

I surveyed the path ahead of me in what was hopefully the direction the map intended. More tall grass, snagging branches, and thick woodland. By this point the weight of the case had worn on me, and my wrist was irritated from the handcuff. What the hell was in this thing? What exactly had I gotten myself into? I trudged forward, wearing on into the night for what seemed like hours. Dark foliage still expanded in every direction, stretching as far as I could see. My right shoulder was sore, that arm sagging with the heavy case. I swiped some thorny branches out of the way with my free hand, but the branch swung back, catching me in the abdomen. The thorns tore through my shirt and left a gash on my stomach. Blood slowly trickled down and soaked into my shirt. Certainly nowhere near life-threatening but it sure stung like hell.

I tried heaving the briefcase in front of me with both hands to give my poor right arm a break. I held it close to me, closed my eyes, and took a step forward in my best estimate of the mall’s direction. That’s when I felt the air change around me, a breeze hit my face and soft dirt crumbled under my shoe. I opened my eyes and looked around. I had just stepped out of a corn field, the rich dark earth exposed from the season’s plowing. I dropped to my knees. I was so happy to be out of those woods I didn’t notice the three figures in front of me at first.

I looked up with a start, and saw three people in dark robes standing about 5 yards away from me in the middle of the field. The morning sun had just started peeking over the flat horizon, and the dark figures stood out in sharp contrast to reaching stalks of corn. They had animal masks on, dark things with long beaks. Like those plague doctors wore in the middle ages. Each one was holding some kind of paper.

CONWAY: “Did you do this? What do you want from me?”

They didn’t respond.

CONWAY: “All I did was call a phone number. I was just looking for a coworker who’d gone missing, I wasn’t looking for trouble.”

But apparently trouble’d I indeed found. The three birds stepped closer to me in unison, then flipped the torn papers they’d been holding. They were pages ripped from the magazine, each one with one big number on it. I pulled the briefcase in front of me and spun the dials to those numbers. The lock clicked open. Finally I could see what was in there that was so damn important it had to be handcuffed to my wrist and dragged around the woods. I lifted the lid and it was rocks.

Just rocks, of various colors and sizes Regular, usual stones. You know, sometimes you have to laugh because well...you could finish that one. I dumped the rocks out into the field. I still couldn’t get my wrist free, but at least the case was lighter. When I rose to my feet again, the bird people were gone. And in the distance, I saw a building, surrounded by a vast gray sea of empty parking spaces and rusted street lights. A tall sign at the entrance used to show all the stores inside, but now it was just empty scaffolding.

It looked like I’d found the dead mall.

WREN: Now before I sign off, I’d be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge the people doing all the work in our field. So thank you to intrepid carrier Flo, and to our lovely receiving clerks Jessica and Gadz. You are what make the DLO function. For the Dead Letter Office of ******* Ohio, this claims adjuster Wren signing off.

*WREN, slightly off mic*: Okay. *indecipherable noise* What? No, no, it’s off. You can see the little red light’s not on anymore. So! How was my first record here? *indecipherable noise* Not bad, I hope. Not used to being directly on mic, I’m more of a behind the scenes kind of thing, you know. *indecipherable noise* Yes, he did sound strange in his early recordings. I wonder if he was worried about his accent coming off a little too folksy so he kind of toned it down. *indecipherable noise* Yes, okay, I will do that. Just the, just the backlog, okay, yes. I can do that. See you tomorrow.

DLO 9: THREE OMENS/MAN OF CONSTANT SORROW

19 april 2021 | 38 min

A freighter on Lake Erie experiences heavy storms. A salvage goes wrong. Conway reminisces about his past, and has a revelation about his present.

(CWs: death, dead animal, brief gore, blood, body horror, insects, alcohol, derealization, deep water)

Lyrics to "Farewell Song" originally published by Dick Burnett

TRANSCRIPT:

CONWAY ON THE PHONE: Omens always come in threes. The dead rat on the porch should have been number one with a bullet. I put some water on the range for a pot of coffee yesterday morning. I was looking out the back window at the leftover frost glittering in the pink ribbons of early sunlight. I saw it lying there on the cement and couldn’t let it just decay. I went out the back door and looked over the scene. Pretty big thing. Probably lived a nice long life eating from my garbage, all things said and done. It had a serious bite on its leg and its stomach was uh...well you know how sometimes your imagination is worse than anything you actually see? This wasn’t one of those times. The kettle bubbled in the kitchen, letting off a trail of steam, and a fly buzzed around overhead.

I fixed to move the poor deceased critter. Scooping it up with a shovel seemed awful undignified, though. I rummaged through the kitchen drawers and cabinets. I waffled between a paper bag and a shoe box. The kettle screeched and plumed on the stove behind me. I couldn’t just dump the little guy in the trash, so I grabbed my garden trowel and made a small hole in the backyard. I laid the box in the grave, then covered its fur in soft earth. In time, it’ll be earth itself once more, and plants will grow from its back that new rats eat. Needless to say, I’m out a pair of tongs and a shoebox now.

Yeah, omens always come in threes, but not because of any natural or supernatural law. Humans are real good at pattern seeking, sometimes to our own detriment. It’s just that it takes three strokes of bad luck for us to really pay attention; one bad thing--well, it is what it is. Two bad things? That’s a coincidence. But three, and now you’ve a pattern. A chain of events. A story.

By then, Kenji’d been missing two weeks, and the angel was still in storage. It'd been a hell of a month. A missing person, an small town, mysterious letters and unexplained occurrences. It all felt a little...familiar. Almost cliche. But I’d been doing this gig for 6 years now and I wasn’t about to give up my healthcare over that. Besides they pay me to read, not to think. And so I did read, one last time, for the Dead Letter Office of Somewhere, Ohio.

*New introduction music*

CONWAY: This is Conway, receiving clerk for the Dead Letter Office of ******* Ohio, processing the national dead mail backlog. The following audio recording will serve as an internal memo strictly for archival purposes and should be considered confidential. Need I remind anyone: public release of this or any confidential material from the DLO is a felony. Some names and places have been censored for the protection of the public.

Dead Letter 315, a weathered diary sent to the wife of a ship’s engineer. It details the fate of a lost cargo ship called the Oneiros, slated to make a quick trip across Lake Erie in 1913. The entries that contain no pertinent information will be excised from the record. The remaining relevant passages read as follows.

NARRATOR: Morning November 6, 1913. Embarking on a short voyage across the Erie, carrying a heavy load of cargo. Some twenty of us boarded the steamer Oneiros, a handsome ship, one of the finest freighters I’ve seen on the Great Lakes. Most aboard are able-bodied seamen, seasoned hands for the weather ‘sides one of the young cargo loaders, a Patrick, or Phillipe I think. USDA weather bureau noted a brisk easterly front, spots of rain for the upper lakes, calmer waters south. Crew seems in fine spirits despite the chill, the 3000 some gross tonnes of cargo, presumably coal and timber, secured below deck. I’m to look after the engine and its various components.

Captain Ludic’s a little daffy, assertively old-fashioned. Barking orders like he’s a pirate king and we’re his swabbies. Could have stepped right from the pages of Treasure Island, beard and all but for his soot black buttoned coat and hat. Seems no quack, though, and certainly knows his way round the ship. He’s very particular about his cargo, and ordered that none of us enter the cargo hold unless he gives us his explicit permission. Should be no longer than a day’s trip, then two days more before I see you again. It’s lonely out here, I can only imagine how dire it is stuck at home alone. I pray that upon my safe return, this log of my activities and thoughts of you more than makes for the time apart. And perhaps then we shall marry. I will be thinking of you fervently.

Evening the 6th of November, 1913. I’ve settled into my berth for the night after we’ve supped. How I wish you could join me. Captain Ludic took his meal on the deck, and I saw fit to join him. Conversation wasn’t exactly enlightening. We took our meat and bread quietly, until a cold drizzle started pattering his old cap. He looked out at the overcast horizon, then he fixed his glazed eyes on me. His hard roll fell from his lap and bobbled across the deck unevenly for a yard before toppling.

CAPTAIN LUDIC: “The Witch of Autumn, she’s coming for us, lad.”

NARRATOR: He spoke softly, and his crooked mouth hung open long after his last syllable. A bit of chicken hung from his scruff.

CAPTAIN LUDIC: “The boys in the papers said t'would be calmer southward, but these old bones feel it coming. When my knuckles swell, when my teeth ache, and the heavens themselves break open, the winds carrying droplets of death, the witch will crest the white waves. She’ll take us all if we’re not vigilant. You mark my words, boy: beware the Witch of the White Squall, and those who would invite her with their careless yearnings. I fear there’s one such man aboard now. You keep your heart hard and your eyes open, all 5 of 'em.”

NARRATOR: He was panting after this warning. His lone gold incisor glittering among the row of stained teeth as his shoulders rose and fell. Then he burst out in laughter, a wheezing squeal that cut through the wind. He slapped me hard on the back. I spit out my whiskey at the impact and forced a chuckle.

Needless to say I won’t be spending my dining hours with that walking stereotype again unless I’m yearning for a fairy tale. I figure myself lucky I’ll only be in his company for a short time. I can now hear the cold rain impacting the deck above my wool-wrapped womb. And something below in the cargo hold, though I can’t tell its origin or purpose. Creaking, maybe footsteps. Perhaps something’s come loose and Patrick or Phillipe is checking on it. I’ll try not to fret over it. Until I see you again in the flesh, Caroline, I will continue our rendezvous in my dreams.

Morning 7th of November 1913. I took breakfast below deck with Phillipe. The rain’s still coming down and the wind blows cold, but Phillipe thinks it should clear by afternoon, and by then we’ll have gone ashore. Like a bad fever, he says. Just have to wait for the break. The boy’s from Montreal, took the rail down, then rode the canal before hauling lumber across the lake. He seems affable and handy enough. He’s as wary of the captain as I, and he had some troubling news about our cargo. He’s been loading lumber for about 10 months now, certainly not a master of his trade, but he says something was off about our freight. The tonnage is accurate, but one crate in particular severely outweighed the rest. Given the volume of the thing, he’s convinced it can’t be lumber, or even coal.

He asked me if I knew any more about our voyage: who’s paying us, where the lumber’s going, but I had little to tell him. I’m not one for accounting. He seems concerned that we may be harboring something dangerous, and the captain won’t tell us. I’d be inclined to agree. Though I’m not entirely convinced Ludic even knows what's down there himself.

Whatever the cargo, we should be seeing the beacon from the lighthouse cutting through the fog any moment now, and I’ll just be glad to be off this ship and in your arms. I do grow so melancholy on these trips without you.

Evening the 7th of November 1913. We lost Terrence this afternoon. The storm has shown no signs of abating, despite the predictions of the men in the papers. Terry’d gone up top the pilothouse to help the captain navigate, as its windows were awash with rain. The lake was growing angry, waves breaking high as 10 feet. The boat was churning in the drip, swaying to and fro, threatening to take on water. Terrence was calling down directions to the captain when a wave suddenly rose double the height of the others. The ship lurched, and poor Terrence--with naught to hold onto--he was launched backward, slamming his head into the pole behind him. The crew rushed to the pilothouse but another swing of the freighter tossed him overboard. We scoured the waters for some time, until Captain Ludic ended the efforts and sent us to bed like a disappointed father.

Still no sign of land. We should have come ashore in Ohio by now, even at our slowed pace. At night, I imagine the two of us together once more, holding hands by the lake. It's only a drean, but...until then.

Afternoon 8th of November 1913.

CAPTAIN LUDIC: “I think we’ve got a rat problem aboard this vessel!”

NARRATOR: The captain shouted over Neptune’s angry bluster. He’d gathered the 19 of us that remained on the darkened deck in the freezing downpour.

CAPTAIN LUDIC: “I know one of you’s been below deck. Couple of the crates been pried open.”

NARRATOR: He had us standing side by side, and walked the line up and down, hunched and frantic, his breath visible in large puffs.

CAPTAIN LUDIC: “Who among ye disobeyed yer captain’s orders?”

NARRATOR: He narrowed his bright eyes.

CAPTAIN LUDIC: “Or so bereft were you of a woman’s touch that you consorted with the witch? Ye accepted the company of the devil herself onto this freighter? Have ye no sense, lad? Must ye look death in her viscous eye and spit in it? Aye the witch draws near, and she’ll scarce be satisfied with you, now she wants the whole crew, and all that we carry. Your base lust has pinned us all to Satan’s dartboard.”

NARRATOR: He had me and Phillipe take our boots off. He inspected the soles. We were the newest members of his crew, and apparently the least worthy of his trust. Rainwater poured down the front of his cap and trickled off his nose. The engine chugged and the steamer groaned against the bracing waves. He threw my boots back at me, squarely impacting my chest. I stumbled backward on the slippery wood. He stood upright in front of Phillipe and drew a long blade.

CAPTAIN LUDIC: “Aye, that’s about the size of it. Yes we’ve got a rat problem aboard this vessel and I aim to remedy it. Do you know what’s down there, lad? Do you have any idea what that is we’re hauling?”

NARRATOR: Phillipe was shaking, shivering. His dark hair was matted, wet and stuck flat to his skull.

CAPTAIN LUDIC: “I’ll not see it sink to the lake floor. Our cargo is more precious than any coin, or any of you scoundrels and lowlifes with your lascivious thoughts.”

NARRATOR: I propped myself up on my elbow, none too eager to draw Ludic’s ire.

CAPTAIN LUDIC: “White witch, take the boy! Let the thousand tongues of the deep rise and writhe! Let Neptune’s breath whip the tide into knives, all cutting wind and choking froth. Come, come on your pelagic locusts, black as the moonless crusted tide. Take him to the sunless fathoms, entombed in barnacles. Stuff his mouth with algae and feed his eye jellies to the worms. Let your nautical insects drink his ichor and sup on his hair. Drag him down, drag him below the surf, where his soul will fester and rust among the reeds, forgotten in the scrap of a hundred ships, a thousand lives, hallowed out and timeless, unmoving as cold pitch. Take the boy who called to you and leave the Oneiros be.”

NARRATOR: Spittle dotted his beard. He panted for several tense moments as freezing rain pelted the ship. The engine burbled and the stack belched black fire into the twilight. Then the captain thrust the knife forward, straight into Phillipe’s core. I shot upright and charged the captain, but three other crewmen held me back: the captain had a pistol at his side, revealed as his thick coat swung open. Ludic slid the blade upward, gutting the poor lad from neck to navel. He burst like a beached whale onto the deck. The captain roared for someone to tie brick to the corpse and toss it overboard, where it sank unceremoniously out of view.

I dreamt of you last night. You came to visit me in the bunk. You leaned over me and gently pressed your sweet lips against mine. I felt a jolt through my system and woke up. I shall hardly sleep this evening, and I shall hardly feel a more forceful loneliness in all my days.

Afternoon November 9 1913. Mutiny. Of course mutiny was on the lips of half the crewman on this cursed freighter, myself included. The cold rain gave way to thick globs of snow overnight, now stinging in the hurricane winds. The ship is barely remaining upright among the massive waves. Everyone’s freezing, hungry, furious. I gathered a few similar-minded seamen and huddled below deck as we planned our next move. The captain has his pistol, but we have numbers on our side. And a few blunt instruments could certainly bash some sense into him if our pretty words can't. This is for Phillipe, for Terrence, and for our miserable woebegone souls.

Morning November 10th 1913. I could scarcely see my hands in front of me, nor the plank of lumber I was wielding. I and four others approached the pilothouse, now almost entirely coated in frost and long, sharp icicles. I pounded on the door and demanded to see Ludic. No response. I wrapped the door several more times. Nothing.

The men and I shouldered the door open, only to find the wheel jammed the pilothouse empty. We’d been left rudderless by a craven fool. Then the winds fell silent, the snow diminished. The waves began to sink back into the lake. Several of the men aboard took to the lifeboats. They liked their chances better in a vessel they could actually steer now that the storm was clearing.

JONATHAN: “It’s a sucker’s hole.”

NARRATOR: One man, Jonathan, confided in me.

JONATHAN: "Those buffoons are going to capsize and freeze out there as soon as the wind picks up again.”

NARRATOR: I looked around at the frozen steamer. Ice hung from every surface. A westerly wind blew over us. I went below deck to check on the engine.

While in the dark of the hold, I heard sleet impact the deck once more. The wind began howling, and the storm proceeded at such a force I could imagine the boat cleaving in twain. Unless we find a way to maneuver or god forbid find any sign of the captain, I’m doubtful we’ll make it to shore. I shall be thinking of you even as I draw my final breaths and pray you visit my nighttime musings again.

Evening November 11th 1913. I can hardly believe what I’m about to write myself, Caroline, but to the best of my storm-battered and hungry mind, it’s true: Captain Ludic was right! The witch came for the Oneiros.

I awoke to the sounds of heavy footfalls on deck. My head was hot and I felt a deep chill. Someone was shouting. I shook my hazy head and rose from my berth, coughing. A scream rang out. I crept along the hallway and neared the ladder. A wet, slurping slither, dragging along the ground. I hesitantly peered above. There was a sight I shan’t forget for the rest of my life, for as long as that may be. Some manner of creature was on deck, a massive wingless insect with long, segmented legs. It had a small, pointed head and enormous round body, like an monstrous tick.

One of the men on board, Jonathan I think, had found a harpoon and launched it at the beast, but it couldn’t penetrate the thing’s thick hide. It turned the man’s direction, and a long, thin tongue unspooled from its head. The pink tendril slithered and writhed on the deck with frightening speed, extending dozens of feet and ensnaring the man. This slimy appendage wrapped around the crewman, tearing his flesh and exposing deep red blood. The beast rushed him, seemingly drawn by the blood. He was screaming, but he couldn’t move. The tongue coiled around him, cutting him badly at every point of contact, opening his skin like a rotten orange peel. The giant thing squirmed and lapped at the blood spilling from the poor crewman, whose cries became weaker, quieter now, blending with the fury of the storm until they ceased completely. It pulled Jonathan’s head to its mouth and began feasting on the damp strands of his dark hair.

From the other end of the steamer, another insectoid rose, its legs clattering over the metal and wood as it climbed onto the deck. It joined its kin, its whip-like tongue probing the air for others to feed on. That’s when I saw the pile of bodies behind them, all shredded and drained of their essence, scalps bald and raw. The bloodbugs began patrolling the freighter for stragglers, and it seemed I was the only one left.

I fled down the hallway, toward the cargo hold. Whatever the captain had said be damned. I hoped that the strong odor of the pine and coal would mask my own reek. I heard one of the things’ legs trying the stairs. I frantically panned the room for somewhere to hide. I spotted a huge crate with a few planks pried off. I wormed my way through the opening and held my breath in the box. I heard the tongues slithering down hall in my wake. I clasped my hands and silently prayed to god with the fervor of a hundred choirs that I’d see you again once more. But my prayer was interrupted by a sound behind me. In the crate I could see a looming shape.

*Crackling and rumbling noises, same as in the Lighthouse*

A sort of metallic invention, like a massive steam engine. It was smooth, dark, containing strange protrusions and angles unlike anything I’d seen before. It was quietly humming, with an occasional clang or thump. There was something else, too.

A fleshy hand reached out into the light filtering in through the missing slats. A hand robed in a dark wool coat. A neck stretched out behind it, attached to a crooked bearded head. It smiled, and a gold incisor flashed in the dim light. I could see that it was Ludic, or part of him anyway. His hands and neck were elongated and stretched beyond man’s limitation. His flesh gray and malleable, like putty. My gaze followed his distended arm down to where his shoulder should be, but all I found was iron. He had somehow...melted into the engine, or soldered himself to it. Metal and flesh twisted and fused, stringy skin hanging between folds of steel. I think he tried to speak, but all that came forth was a buzz, an electrical chattering like a broken telegraph. I felt sick, and ran from the crate.

I sprinted past the sleeping quarters and up toward the deck. I was hit full force with the blistering might of the storm as I went topside. My eyelashes froze, my nervous sweat crystalized. I could barely see the bloodbugs at the other end of the deck through the blizzard. My vision went completely white as I dropped to my knees, violently ill and nearly frozen solid.

Then through the pale wall she stepped, the Autumn Witch, the Woman of the White Squall. She bade her pests retreat, and stood before me. Her skin was glistening, and she wore not a single scrap of clothing to defend against the chill. Her hair shimmered and waved as if she was underwater. Her feet never touch the ground. She brushed her hand against my cheek, and an icy jolt shivered down my back.

I looked into her eyes and saw wild, radiant love. A love conjured by a lonely sailor, now requited. A fevered love so bold it would kill. She leaned down close, and I could smell the salt breeze on her breath. She pressed her blue lips to my forehead, and I blacked out.

I woke up 12 hours later in the dark, soaking on my back in the falling rain, adrift in the infinite waters of Hades.

Morning November 12, 1913. I awoke to a distant horn. I thought it at first a dream, a hopeful hallucination. Then the horn sounded again a second time. I sat upright, shivering and soaked through. I saw a beam of light cut through the rain: the lighthouse! I yelped, a sound as much of agony as celebration, and stood. I laughed, dry and bitter wheezing. The ship was drifting toward the shore after 6 long days in hell. I ran down to gather my things and wrap myself in something dry. Then I ducked into the pilothouse and stared out at the light. A smile dared cross my lips. I could make it after all.

Then came a horrible rending, a piercing shriek of metal on rock. The ship lurched, and I tumbled forward in the cabin. I was so enthralled by the beacon of the lighthouse that I’d missed the sharp rocks in the shallows. Now she was sinking, taking on icy water. Metal groaned and beams bent and snapped. The stack chugged and spit wet smoke over the scene. The rear of the freighter began sinking. Among the rocks I saw a lifeboat, the very same from the Oneiros, filled with skeletons picked clean and bleached by the sun. I laughed again, a wailing peal like the whinny of Death’s very steed.

There may yet be time for rescue, but the frigid waters or the phlegm in my lungs will likely take me before the sailors do. And so I bid you adieu, Caroline. Just one more sob story for another sailor’s widow. As trite as Ludic himself. If the intrepid rescuers do happen to find these scrawlings and wish to know my fate, I’ve gone to join the Captain.

CONWAY: Records at the time indicate that several other ships went down in this storm, including several hundred crew, but the Oneiros and its men were never found. Given its contents and its age, the DLO has deemed this diary, DL-315, undeliverable. It will be stored safely in our vault.

CONWAY ON THE PHONE: I’ve been thinking a lot about the past lately. Old friends, old regrets. I suppose it’s my approaching middle age catching up onme.

My time with the office has been uh...illuminating. All those wild things I saw as a kid? The things my parents sent me to see serious adults about? Well maybe some of them weren’t so wild. You know how I started working here? I used to be in public radio, the local affiliate down in Cincy. I studied art when I was in college, but well, that didn’t pan out like so many other things. I worked a bunch of odd jobs, making 6 dollars an hour slinging coffee or double that if I was willing to break my back. I eventually got lucky and I guess somebody liked my cadence. I’m sure it helped that the station was underfunded and I was willing to work late and cheap.

One day about 6 years ago, two suspicious gentlemen in suits dropped by my little studio on my lunch break. They asked if I wanted a job with the post office. They sure as hell didn’t look like mail carriers, looked like stone-cold feds to me. I politely declined, praying the cuffs didn’t come out. They just handed me a card. I told them if I was ever out of a job, I’d give them a call. After they left, I looked over the card. No names, no phone number, just three letters: DLO.

Next morning, I get a call. Boss says the studio caught fire last night after everybody left. Electrical malfunction. Whole place up in smoke. Not enough money to rebuild or move studios. Just gonna shut down the affiliate station. What a coincidence. I looked at the card again and thought of Lucy. Then I got a call. One more chance to reconsider the offer.

Yeah, Lucy and I did almost everything together when we were kids. We were pretty much inseparable, at least until the cave incident. I haven’t heard from her in a long, long time. I don’t know why I haven’t reached out. I guess I was afraid too much time got between us. That I wouldn’t know what to say. We might even hate each other now. My memory from that time is a little fuzzy, too, just bits and pieces, blurry impressions. It’s funny, I sometimes wonder if I made her up, y’know, like an imaginary friend. Those early memories feel about as real a dream most days. Like something that happened to someone else. Like scenes from a worn out VHS tape. But look at me, I’m rambling again. Back to the story.

The teeth should have been the second omen. An unmarked box showed up at the office the same morning as the sailor’s journal. I picked up the small parcel and shook it like a kid at Christmas, though my approach was rather more apprehensive. Lifting the folds revealed a jewelry box. I flipped the lid open with a creek of its rusty hinges. Underneath was a mirror long ago marred by the grit and grime of age. The plush interior of the box was covered in dark stains, and it smelled like a wet basement. Sitting in one of the compartments were about a dozen human teeth, dark and worn. One reflected light underneath the others: a crude golden incisor.

CONWAY: Dead Letter 18316, an application for worker’s comp from ******. The applicant’s name has been redacted. Looks like he suffered a leg injury during a salvage job. Included with the application is a photo of the injury and testimony from the worker. His testimony reads as follows:

WORKER: I hereby swear upon penalty of perjury that the following statement is true to the best of my knowledge. We were supposed to pull up some cargo from a ship that recently went down in the area. Apparently whatever was in there could leak, causing some serious trouble to the watershed. The algae’s bad enough, we don’t need some oil spill or toxic waste leak or you know anything like that. We were given permission by the state, and were funded by some tech startup to help clean up the lake.

I boarded the boat around 6:50am. I got out to the marked location around 8. I put on my wetsuit, grabbed the hook, and hopped in. I swam down and found the boat we were looking for. I was about to check the cargo hold when something grabbed hold of me. Something bit my leg and pulled me really hard. Must have been some fish. Maybe even a shark. I’ve heard some bull sharks can live in fresh water for a while. I paddled and kicked, but my leg wouldn’t break free. It dragged me some distance, and then let me go. I saw a different ship ahead of me underwater. Much older, covered in rust.

I broke the surface and signaled for help. The boys pulled me aboard and the EMT got to work on my leg. Someone else went down to secure the cargo. I tried to tell them it was a different ship but I’m not sure I was making sense. I was in searing pain and losing a good deal of blood. I was looking up past the hanging cables and into the clear sky. Then the wires started moving, waving on their own and spiraling above me. I weakly lifted my hand to point, but the medic just placed it back down and told me to relax. The wires weaved and twisted into form: an angel. Not just like a lady with wings, it was all fingers and eyes and mouths. It told me I needed to find it. That it was in some museum somewhere south of here and needed to be freed. I know it sounds real loopy, but that’s what I saw. Someone shouted that they got the cargo up, but it wasn’t what we were looking for. I was close to passing out by then of course, so not sure what it was. Then I woke up in the emergency room with a bunch of stitches.

CONWAY: Inspecting the photo here, it’s a serious injury of the left calf. It’s certainly no fish bite. I’m no biologist, but if I had to guess, I’d say the bite is primate in origin. Likely human. Multiple bites overall, very deep punctures and a few tears. I’m gonna send the photo and this box over to the boys in the lab. Maybe they can work out a match. In the meantime, I’ll have the higher ups approve his application and send him a nice check, on the condition that he doesn’t mention the incident again. We’ll be keeping the application letter and associated paraphernalia in our vault.

CONWAY ON PHONE: The Midwest is so big, it’s sometimes hard to imagine there’s anything outside of it. Like I see pictures of the ocean, and that might as well be a continent away at this point. You drive for hours and somehow you’re still surrounded by cornfields and flat land. You take an old country route and pass the same intersecting road 3 times. It’s like a magic trick. Every time I try to leave, something keeps me here. It’s a curse, or maybe that’s how I justify it to myself. Believing some paranormal interference is the reason I’m stuck in a rut makes it a little easier to swallow than the reality: the reality that there’s a pit at the center of the state, a gravity well that pulls you in and keeps you here. The fire burning forever underground. You can fight it, but you’ll always be pulled like the snap of a rubber band back home. There’s like a vampiric presence here, a specter of collapsed industry and apathy, poverty and vast distance, that haunts the condemned buildings and provincial small towns of Ohio. There are good people here. Solid folk of all kinds. And there are stories to be told here. But who’s listening? And who’s allowed to talk?

Anyway that’s when the last postcard showed up. Just like the ones sent in by the Lost Fisherman from the nonexistent town. The name on the card read Lucy. What a coincidence. But the number beside the name’s what shook me, gave me that tingling feeling in my brain that sometimes comes as a corollary to dread. Like twisted deja vu. It was my home phone number from when I was a kid. They disconnected that line ages ago. I thought about calling it, but the DLO was sending me out for one more field trip. A package too unwieldy, too fragile to be shipped out of the tiny post office that was storing it. Of course it was my job once again to drive out to some location and stick my snoot into whatever nonsense they’d cooked up. Of course it was 2 hours away.

But I’m nothing if not dedicated to the job, so I tucked the postcard into my shirt pocket, took a swig of cold coffee, and got in the car.

CONWAY ON TAPE: --down to a small post office, to check out a very large crate. Apparently it was a little too fragile and a little too um...unwieldy to ship out of that small post office given its resources. Now any time they send me out somewhere like this I’m a little suspicious, so let’s find out what I’m about to get my nose in.

*click*

--the back room here, and it is a fairly large crate, I’ll give them that.

I’ve got a crowbar here, let’s see if I can get this thing open. *Wood snaps* All right. *Conway coughs* Dear god, it’s a body. Oh dear got that is a body. That...that’s Kenji’s body. That’s Kenji. Oh my god. Oh god. And if I...His leg, oh my god. Well, that’s those bite marks. Oof. Oh god Kenji, what did you get into. Okay. And he’s holding something, he--Kenji’s got a hold of a-an all white rotary phone. Old spin dial, you know you gotta twist the numbers around before you can input the number. Oh god Kenji. Based on the decomposition of the body, I would estimate he’s been dead for quite some time, though the preservation is uh impressive. Perhaps the sea air or perhaps a mummification process was used on him. But god, lord if it don’t stink.

Now...gonna pick up that phone and dial this number.

*click*

CONWAY ON PHONE: Well anyway, that’s when I called you.

LOST FISHERMAN: “Jeez, that’s all fascinating. You’ve had a quite a ride today. But do you mind if I ask you one thing? I want you to think real hard about this one, don’t just blurt out an answer. What’s your last name, Conway?”

CONWAY: I uhh I don’t see what uh...Now wait, now don’t you do this. I know who you are, don’t you do this.

LOST FISHERMAN “I know it’s rough, your mind wants to reject it, but I promise it’s all gonna make sense.

CONWAY: Oh, Ken and Lucy, very clever. You knew I’d tie it together eventually. Now don’t you do this. Let me stay here. Let me--

LOST FISHERMAN: “You’re not real, not yet anyway.”

CONWAY: Let me stay.

LOST FISHERMAN: Now I want you to look at your cellular telephone. What time is it?”

CONWAY: I can’t…I can’t make it--

*Dial tone*

CRACKLING VOICE ON THE RADIO: If you make the margins big enough, you can see him in the dots and waves. He comes through the wires. He’s a frequency, an atom bomb’s worth of electricity.

ANTONY: She said they’re not real, they’re just fictional characters.

CONWAY: It all felt a little...familiar. Almost cliche. What happens in that missing second every million years?

LOST FISHERMAN: We’ll be waiting for you at the top of the lighthouse.

*Overlapping voices say “this is Conway”*

*Scratchy, old folk song, singing the following:*

I am a man of constant sorrow,

I’ve seen trouble all of my days;

I’ll bid farewell to Cincinnati,

The place where I was born and raised.

For six long years, I’ve been in trouble

No pleasure here on this earth I’ve found,

For in this world I’m born to ramble,

I have no friends to help me now.

Oh, fare ye well my native country,

The place that I loved and loathed so well,

Fo--

*record scratching, forest ambience, crickets chirping*

Then I was somewhere else. A place I’d heard of but never been. Surrounded by fireflies underneath the canopy of red oak boughs. There was something in the trees ahead. Two glowing spots like headlights in foliage. They were moving, attached to something about a foot taller than me, coming my way through the dark. It strode on long, thin legs bending backwards, like a hulking stork. Powdery wings spread from its back and there was a...skunky smell on the air. And he had something to show me.

*lighter flicks several times, drums kick in, jam begins*

*forest ambience fading out*

DLO 8: HUNTED/HAUNTED

5 april 2021 | 17 min

Conway sorts through some old--and possibly haunted--video games. The office receives a letter from someone with a peculiar ghost problem.

Happy (late) April Fools! I certainly hope no major video game publishers listen to this show!

(CWs: alcohol, brief blood, implied death)

TRANSCRIPT:

CONWAY: This is Conway, receiving clerk for the Dead Letter Office of ***** Ohio, processing the national dead mail backlog. The following audio recording will serve as an internal memo strictly for archival purposes and should be considered confidential. Need I remind anyone: public release of this or any confidential material from the DLO is a felony. Some names and places have been censored for the protection of the public.

Dead Object 2513, a box of old video game cartridges. Let’s see what we’ve got. The label appears to have been weathered off on this first one, and someone’s written a name on the front in permanent marker. The games arrived with some other belongings, the leftovers from an estate sale that just couldn’t find a buyer. I’ve got an old system set up, paid for out of pocket of course, just on a lark. The interior of this cartridge looks pretty corroded, so I guess we'll see if it even plays.

All right, looks like the logo’s coming up. There's the title. Select a file. We’ve got one file with a person’s name, probably the old owner, and another file. Let’s choose that second one.

Okay, on the screen we’ve got the main character, all in green, lying all twisted up in some kind of dark atmosphere. I can’t move him, and can't really do much else on this screen. There’s an eerie looking gentleman with a large backpack nearby smiling at me. Seems he’s got some masks on his bag. Oh, we’ve got some text coming up at the bottom now. It reads as follows: “You’ve met with a terrible fate, haven’t you?”

Nah, I’ve seen this one before. Not interested.

Let’s try this one.

OLD-FASHIONED NARRATOR: You are about to travel to another place, a place not only of truth but of allegory. Beyond this title screen, you will see a nightmare, a reflection, a fiction more real than any photograph.

You’re looking at a nondescript bar in the middle of a town in the heart of America. The exact location of this town is not important, for it’s not the place you must consider, but its people. A people in dire need of change to stave off collapse. Unfortunately for the people of this place, there will be no drastic change from those at the top, only distraction, diversion, entertainment.

STORYTELLER: Condensation covers the windows as heat from the patrons inside cools on the chilly glass. A tall man in a green hat sits by himself at the bar, looking forlorn over his thick mustache into his nearly-empty glass. The noises of the night--murmurs, clinking glasses, cars passing outside--melt into a gauzy hum behind him. He drains the remainder and wipes his mouth with a white-gloved hand. He fishes into his pocket for his wallet and gives a sharp sniff to stop his bulbous nose from running. He’s out of cash. He puts the glass down in front of him, wobbles in his stool for a moment, and then wraps his knuckles on the counter for another drink. The bartender turns to face him.

The man behind the bar tips back his green hat and tugs on his suspenders as he looks the patron over. The bartender shakes his head and twists his mouth up under his full twirled mustache. The man at the bar doesn’t like this answer. His eyebrows furrow and his mustache twitches. He slams his hand on the counter. This catches the attention of the rest of the patrons sitting at tables around the bar. They all turn toward him. Everyone’s on edge tonight. Despite the chilly weather, the patrons are similarly dressed in blue overalls with brass buttons, green shirts, green lettered caps, and white gloves. All tall, all mustaches. A football game plays on the television in the background, lines of mustaches in shoulder pads facing off. The angry patron at the bar, feeling the eyes of the others, hangs his head. He shrugs and makes a remorseful gesture with his hands. He slides his hat off his head and holds it to his chest as he slinks out of the bar’s side door.

Outside, gentle snowflakes drift and fall onto the chartreuse hats of two figures kissing in the alley beside the bar. A cart darts by in the road, a blur of emerald as its roar cuts the still winter air. The drunk man from the bar stumbles through the side door into the alley, and the two lovebirds freeze and look anxiously his way. After he passes them by, they embrace again, giggling. One shushes the other playfully with a gloved white finger to his lips through visible breath.

Then another noise disrupts the alley pair, this time deeper in the freezing darkness ahead. Something is rustling in the dumpster. They nervously peer ahead, with shortened breaths puffing and disappearing, goosebumps pricking on their skin. Something wholly different suddenly bursts from the cans, someone clad in purple with a ruddy nose and thin pointed mustache. His dark eyes dart wildly below the brim of his indigo cap. One of the men in green points and gasps, his blue eyes wide in shock. The other screams to alert the patrons of the bar.

From among the ripe trash and fetid wastewater the lithe purple man rises. He scans his surroundings, trying to figure out where, exactly, he is. One man in green takes a step forward, putting himself in between this sudden antagonist and his sweetheart. He doesn’t see the fear in the purple man’s expression: he sees only the beady eyes, the gangly form, the difference. One of the pair rushes to the mouth of the alley and peeks into the street, looking around for any help. Sensing the cruel intent of these olive adversaries, the man in purple takes this moment to flee from the trash cans. He bursts upright, taller than any other, and sprints past the lovers. He knocks over a few trash cans in the city and disappears into an adjacent alley, discarded food and wrappers flying in his wake. The two in green outside the bar open the front door and call to the others. The patrons rise and murmur excitedly. Several take out phones to make calls or record the event for posterity. The television in the empty bar interrupts the game to announce the breaking news: the purple man is loose. The hunt begins.

This lone stranger, this shadow of man, is propelled by nervous, nauseous adrenaline. He’s not sure if it’s the cold or the fear making his teeth chatter. The streetlights cast the snowy sidewalks in a sickly pallor. He sprints through the empty streets, taking to the darkness when he can, peering around building corners to spot trouble before it spots him. He passes stores, ads, billboards, all green, all alike but him. He slows his pace for just a moment as he takes in the situation. The purple man pauses in front of a display window for a clothing store. He stands in front of a pale mustachioed mannequin, his reflection mismatched against its form. He compares his dark overalls to the ones in the window. He presses his hand gloved against the cold glass. He himself is a reflection. He is shaken from this contemplation by a pine line forming across the street in hot pursuit.

The purple man alights again, pushing through occasional pockets of green that eventually join the growing crowd following him. He cuts through alleys and across an empty campus. The bright lamp posts illuminate the sidewalks but also cast deep shadows on his path. There are flyers that he doesn’t understand attached to poles around the school grounds. He tries the doors of several buildings--a dining hall, a large auditorium--but they’re locked. Near the edge of campus, he frantically tries another door. It begins to give, but a mustache appears from the shadows inside and slams the door shut. There will be no help for him here on the night of the hunt.

Past campus, the man in purple sneaks into a quiet residential area of the city. He uses his long limbs to clamber up a fire escape near an empty playground. This time he is in luck: the door at the top of the stairs swings open as he pushes the bar. He sneaks into the apartment building, quietly walking through the halls, looking for a stairwell or closet to hide in for the night.

Then he hears a sharp *psst* behind him. One of the handlebar-ed men has a door propped open. He lets the purple man into the apartment, his eyes roving nervously for trouble and then closing the door. The smell of simmering vegetables fills the air as two children play on the floor with toys that look just like their father, who’s wearing a white t-shirt and sweatpants. The man with the inverted letter sits down on crossed legs. The kids are excited to have company this time. The television flashes with color and noise, a cartoon of two men in green battle suits fighting a giant purple monster.

The father brings out a steaming bowl of soup and breaks off a piece of bread for the man in purple. He’s so excited for real food he starts shoveling the soup into his mouth. The father moves to caution him, but it’s too late. The soup is too hot. The purple man lets out a pained “WA!” and then covers his mouth, spilling soup all over the carpet and the father’s shoes. All are tense and silent, staring at him.

Next door, a large television is playing a dramatic report about the purple man and what danger he poses. A phone number streaks on the screen: a reward for any reports of the man in purple. The man in overalls watching sits its up in his recliner when he hears the shout from across the hall. He doffs his green cap, picks up his phone, and starts dialing the number on the television.

The thin man with the pointed mustache grabs a cloth from the counter and wets it. He kneels down and begins wiping the soup off of the floor, and cleaning the father’s shoes. The father peers out the window behind his guest and sees the green tide coming, gathered with flashlights outside the playground. He darts to the room farthest from the park and quietly slides up the window. He motions for his guest to come into the room. The purple man looks down--it’s a bit of a drop, but he doesn’t have much choice. The front door of the building bursts open as light and sound pour in like a hull breach. The father looks back one more time to the odd man in odd colors and heads to the door. The purple man jumps out the window and lands awkwardly on his leg, his ankle twisting. He grimaces and muffles his pained groan with his white glove to his mouth. A few eager figures in the mob reach the helpful man’s door. They kick it down and filter in uninvited, searching the apartment and overturning furniture. One happens to notice the open window. They knock down the father and back rush outside. The cartoon glows silently on the television as their silhouettes exit, and children cry in the bedroom.

Only half-running now, pain coming in waves as he puffs with each cold step, the purple man tips over trash cans behind him to slow the wave of blue overalls. He must keep going. The green contingency continues to grow as bystanders join the group.

The man in purple lumbers toward the only haven available to him: the stadium downtown. He ducks around the corner, seemingly far enough ahead of the pack, and enters a side door. The man in purple is even slower now, wading into the pitch-dark building and dragging his broken ankle behind his good one. He sighs as he hears the voices and footsteps rush past the side door he entered. He tilts back his hat and wipes the anxious sweat from his forehead.

Then blinding light explodes into view from above, flooding the arena. The man in purple is standing in the middle of a basketball court, and the seats are half full of men in green hats, more filing in every second. Lime lines of mustachioed men stretch out to block the door that he came in from. In a panic, he lunges for the main entrance, barely able to breathe through the stress and pain. The scoreboard is alight with platitudes about sportsmanship. He takes a step, but crumbles from the agony in his ankle.

Television cameras set up around the court zoom in, broadcasting his pain live. Screens in homes, bars, shops, phones glow with video. Some channels have identical men in green L hats discussing the merits of the hunt. They ultimately decide: who can say? Who can say something’s bad when it’s so good for business? Who can say there’s another way? Who can say what violence hides in the hearts of others? Some viewers sadly shake their heads from their couches, some cheer. But the hunt goes on.

The green cloud of men in the stadium move on the man in purple, carrying bats, chairs, chains. He raises his hands to protect his face from these implements of violence. The crowd cheers as his blood spills into the cracks in the wood. The scoreboard blares the national anthem. It is still and silent outside of the stadium. Tiny pools of light glow in the trees as fireflies circle the leaves in the dark. The purple man replays these events in his head, a repeating nightmare. His last nightmare.

OLD-FASHIONED NARRATOR: It is near dusk again, a month after the preceding incident. In a metropark in a town in the heart of this nation, two older gentlemen in slouching green hats are playing chess. One takes a pawn, the other considers his next move. A purple hat drops down from the tree behind them. The two in overalls lock eyes and stand up slowly with grins under their mustaches. They’ve forgotten life before all this. That better things are possible. Who has the time anymore? Besides, he’s not like them. The game is afoot.

CONWAY: Now that’s a bit more interesting. I suppose in my spare time I’ll go through a few more of these cartridges and see what all this box has in store. For now though, Dead Object 2513 will be stores safely in our vault.

CONWAY: Dead letter 14114, a letter addressed to...well let’s just dive in and you’ll see how it plays out.

ANTONY, NARRATOR: I need help and I figured you’d be the one to ask. For the last year, I’ve been haunted by a mischievous spirit. I’ll be sitting in bed and hear a crash downstairs. I go down there and there’s dishes broken all over the floor. I see his spectral body float through the window and he goes,

“Did I do that?”

You see I’m haunted by the ghost of Steve Urkel. Not the actor, he’s still alive. It’s Urkel. It’s Urkel! It's Urkel. Or I go to the bathroom and hear him shout “whoa mama!” then there’s green slime all over my friggin walls! And it’s not just him either, he’s just the worst of it. Sometimes Frasier drinks my booze when I’m out. It's not cheap hooch, either. When I put my car in reverse in the garage, the Toolman grunts and steps on the accelerator.

Now, I already talked to a psychic, but she thought I was pulling a prank. She said they’re not real, they’re just fictional characters. But I sure sure as hell see a lot of them for not being real. If they ain’t real, how come they’re on tv, on t-shirts? How come I can buy a poster, or a dvd? Why do we talk about em if they ain’t real?

Now this may sound a little funny, but I tried binding them with a circle of their dvds of their shows, but it’s no use. Maybe I need the blu-ray or the 4k steelbook. These retired characters have made my house hell on earth, but I’m the one being punished. It’s taken everything I've got not to scream and burn it down. You've got to do something about this. Get an exorcist, get the army--hell, get a producer friend of yours to get their show started again, just get them the hell out of here. They’re going to put me in an early grave.

Thank you for your time, Mr. President.

A loyal voter,

Antony ******

CONWAY: Well, considering that the president addressed in the letter is no longer in office, I think the DLO will hold onto this one. Dead Letter 14114 is therefore deemed undeliverable and will be stored in our vault.

For the Dead Letter Office of Somewhere, Ohio, this is Conway, signing o--

*Outro music interrupts him*

*Ahem* This is Conway, signing--

*Outro music interrupts him again*

What the hell is this? Is this another postcard? This is the lighthouse again...and I know that number...

*Real outro plays*

DLO 7: DANSE MACABRE/IT'S AN ANGEL, CONWAY

22 mars 2021 | 19 min

The office receives a grisly letter from the early 20th century about an experimental composer. Conway muses about his past and present.

(CWs: blood, body horror, knuckles cracking, death)

Music:

Purcell - Rondeau From Abdelazer

Vivaldi - Concerto for Two Violins in A Minor

Saint-Saëns - Danse macabre, Op. 40

TRANSCRIPT:

Now this is an old one. I feel like if I’m not careful opening this, the whole thing’s gonna tear. Dead Letter 312. A letter addressed to a Mr. Markos. I’m not entirely sure how it made it into our backlog, given it’s about 100 years old, but there appears to be no address for this Mr. Markos. The letter reads as follows.

EDGAR, NARRATOR: "Malicious. Obscene. Substandard. Most disagreeable and indigestible. The proverbial Dickensian crumb of cheese splattered on the stage by an ill-tempered mind, one assuredly perverted by rhythm and reason hitherto unknown to polite society. A complete aesthetic and moral failure for Monsieur Edgar, and a black spot on all contemporary English works. Perhaps Edgar should have retained his study of internal medicine, whereby he could make messes of the human form as he sees fit, sans audience."

These “kind words” and more you levied at my first premiere in Paris one year ago, Monsieur Markos. Certainly your confidant Madame Stein has long ago heard the tale of my ballet’s misfortune and ensured all the other aesthetes gathered in her gilded salon from Apollinaire to Matisse know my shame.

I can imagine you poring over this text now, after my second premiere, in a frenzied allegro--perhaps accompanied by the horns of bobbies--seeking any news of your daughter’s health, any drop of comfort for your troubled heart. Though my frame shudders with mirth at the mere thought, that revelation must come in due course, monsieur. First I should like to give you a thorough recounting of the creation of my latest, and final, piece.

One evening the 25th of October, 1915. Deep in the trench of a gas-laden graveyard, a medic stood just outside the range of an artillery shell detonation. Three other medics within the radius were torn apart and died instantly, along with several soldiers a touch more slowly, leaving just this lone medic as the frantically bandaging witness. It was in these trenches that the medic saw the true barbarity of our race, the needless suffering we undergo and inflict for the benefit of our supposed betters. We, merely the chess pieces of our modern gods callously tossed off the board for a coin. He saw the very threshold of what man’s body can endure, and what Herr Freud might call the collective psyche of a nation can withstand--or bury. You, Monsieur, championed this war in your paper of record and seem determined to bury its atrocities.

At the time of my release from service, a friend apprised me of the goings-on at a salon in Zurich, of Mr. Hugo Ball and his associates at the Cabaret Voltaire. I was divinely inspired by their destruction and reconfiguration of the old modes into new ones, of the unseen grotesque discovered. The absurdity of our modern condition, in the twisted forms in a Braque, or a Duchamp, were not so dissimilar to the horrors of the Great War, to the bodies out of joint and out of space strewn across Europe. I spent the majority of my cached income to bring these radical new movements to the orchestra, to replicate the impossible bodies in dance, and to never let us forget what they have done to us, and what you and yours encouraged; the grinding of our bodies into dust in the gears of imperial war and industry.

As for Stein and all: I hadn’t the slightest interest in their approval in any case. However, since my premiere, your words had rattled around my mind like a sharp stone in my shoe. I thought I’d be rid of it only to be sorely reminded of its presence by a prick in the heel. I did not seek your approval, yet your critique soured me on my own work. I was driven to rework the piece entirely, to transmogrify it into a ballet that would test the very limits of the form itself. The fruits of this labor you were witness to this very night.

I began the process many months ago. I would spend hours in my parlor with my mandolin, plucking out atonal melodies and discordant passages derived from sources both holy and profane. Dominant sevenths with no tonic, tritones without resolution. I found these enlightening, but not fully to my taste. There was a rhythmic certainty to even the most foul tonal combinations. My purpose then became to create rhythmic oddities. I tried playing in time with my metronome with the right hand and freely with the left, ensuring the notes were never fully in sync. This produced a most curious push and pull, a feeling of always being off balance and many missed notes. Yes, something akin to this might do well. Throughout the period of composition, I would snatch pieces of unrelated sound, the babbling of a river, the whistle of a shopkeep, and turn them into notes for my tone poem. The piece’s vacillations and rhythmic intricacies would demand top-tier performers.

I scoured the city for musicians who could perform my work. After numerous failures and a handful of misunderstandings, I hired two of the finest players in our county and filled the rest of the cast with novices. With my orchestra assembled and my score as completed as necessary, it then came time to select my ballerina.

I met the prospective mademoiselle for tea one hazy morning. Her demeanor was most agreeable, and we got on fabulously. I had little money left, but my enthusiasm for the work convinced her to join our motley group. I found in her initial routines that she wasn’t one of the many children of artistic figureheads given praise simply for a name, devoid of their progenitor’s talent: quite the opposite, in fact. I found her skill astounding regardless of her parentage, and she held none of the contempt or pretense so often found in the offspring of great men.

I gathered them all together the following day for our first rehearsal. The mademoiselle moved beautifully to the arhythmic flow, but the musicians left something to be desired. The performers all played off tempo and off-key, but not in the intended manner. I tried to reign in the chaos, but the novices grew frustrated with my demands, leading to a swath of musicians walking out of my studio. I was left with only a violinist and pianist. The capital was gone, so this would have to do.

Oh, what accidents lady fortune brings us from time to time which illuminate the importance of a thing overlooked. With merely the two musicians and the mademoiselle--a truly sparse arrangement--the work came alive. The keys and strings battled and tangled, swaying in and out of time, leaving empty space in which the dancer could play her part. I watched her gyrations with keen interest, an interest I must admit grew beyond the professional. She was the fairest collaborator I had ever known. Not only could she aptly perform the steps I laid out, she absolutely understood them. The only apprehension she had was when I occasioned the rehearsals always to cease before the finale. Separately I worked with the players so that they may know their score, but never the mademoiselle. This, I told her, would shroud the final movements in mystery, even from the performers.

Before we were ready to perform, however, it was inevitable that the finale be practiced. I took the mademoiselle through the steps slowly, half-tempo and half-intensity: I showed her the proper angles and bends, and she showed me her exquisite techniques. She found the choreography most unnatural and quite difficult even at such a speed, which I admit now is the intent, and I instructed that she not under any circumstances perform it at its full force before the premiere. To do so carelessly could be fatal: an imprecise leap, stumbled stretch, or ill-guided fold may land one in the grave rather than the headlines.

Watching the Mademoiselle move recalled for me the impressive feats of which man’s body is capable with the proper care and training. My medical studies gave me a superior mechanical knowledge of man’s carriage, and I am also schooled in dance, yet her capabilities outstripped my own. As we practiced day by day, I was smitten first with her dance, then with the woman herself, though it was an affection that was largely kept hidden lest it destroy the very thing we on which we worked. I know not whether she felt the same, but it hardly matters; the yearning of a love unrequited is a literary gift all its own.

After some weeks of rehearsal and revision, the piece was ready to be consumed by the public.

We were given a small space in a local hall. We began sending out invitations. Yours, Monsieur Markos, I trust found you well. And whom else should you find advertised on the bill that evening but one of the finest dancers in our fair city, Mademoiselle Alice Markos? Is it not fitting that the daughter of the preeminent critic and writer of our time should perform in the next historic ballet?

Now that you have been made privy of the history of this piece, Monsieur, I would like to briefly prognosticate its future. It is the very morning of the premiere as I am writing, and if you and the piping peelers would be so kind as to indulge my fantasy, I shall tell you how the performance no doubt went.

You entered the concert hall, dressed in your black finery and hat, cane in hand. You sat near the rear of the theater, the better to disguise your presence from myself lest I mistake your appearance here for serious interest in my little farce. The house went quiet. Two performers hardly make an opera, you thought!

Then the music began, a series of jerky, stilted lines, seemingly in constant struggle to be held together. Your daughter took to the stage next, dressed in naught but red bandages, a black cloth over her eyes. Her movements came quickly and suddenly, as if she herself wasn’t aware of her next step. Murmurs arose from the audience, displeasure and confusion mingling. The mademoiselle’s gestures were all raised knees, thrown elbows, more akin to the vicious maneuvers of illicit prize fighters than dance. Her arms swung side to side, twisting her torso, dark hair flailing in the light. She dropped to the stage floor curling and writhing her limbs violently as if on fire. Several patrons scoffed and rose to leave, others chuckled nervously or began booing. The dancer crawled across the open space, pulled by some malicious invisible presence. The music paused as the ballerina spun on knees and elbows, gesticulating outward with such force, the only remaining sound on stage being the scuffling and squeaking of bare flesh on the varnished wood. One arm flung outward toward stage-left as the pounding music swelled once more, then the body followed, jolting that direction and leaving the audience. By this point, the viewers were surely in a feverish excitement of various emotions. I can already hear the shouts and jeers, the pounding of fists on the seats, the gnashing of teeth and covering of eyes. If I may badly misquote the American Williams: Aircrafts slamming joyfully into the earth, youths throwing themselves into the streets to be run over wailing, “Someone has written a ballet!”

But out stepped the dancer in all black, with a white mask obscuring every form and feature. The piano and violin crescendoed toward the finale. The dancer swayed back and forth, farther and farther, until they fell, collapsing faceward to the stage, unmoving. At this point I’m sure you leaned forward, straining to see if your daughter was ill or injured. Then the dancer’s limbs began bending backward, twisting as if under the spell of Mephistopheles himself. Legs and arms folded and cracked like twigs underfoot. The spine stretched and curved. The dancer curled themselves into a knotted ball, then suddenly jerked their head. The dancer was very still, and the audience went quiet until dark red liquid began seeping through the mouth of the white mask, staining in its wake and dripping onto the floor. Blood pooled and dripped down the side of the stage. The audience erupted into a panicked mob, many running for the exits, the others climbing over the chairs to check on the dancer, and you paralyzed with fear, spirit sinking. Then the floor dropped beneath the dancer, the curtains closed, and the composer fled from backstage into the alley.

It’s quite impressive what can be done to the human body with the proper training. Yes, Monsieur Markos, the curtain calls for every one, even your precious daughter. The dance of death unites us all, from the nameless soldier to the illustrious writer, from the lowly Edgar to the mighty Cezanne, and tonight I have made this fatal ballet quite literal.

Though it is not your daughter’s day to die. No, Monsieur, I am no murderer: my beloved Mademoiselle is safe at my studio in my conductor’s garb. Remember I am established in dance, myself, Monsieur, and rehearsed daily with your daughter. She taught me all I needed and more. For the final act of my final piece, I exchanged roles with the ballerina, so that the composer became the dancer vice versa. Make messes of the human form, indeed, monsieur. Now if you would open the door behind this note and check beneath the stage with the enclosed key. You may still find me barely clinging to life among the black kegs if you’re fleet of foot. And bring those constables, I’m sure I’ll have quite a bombshell waiting for you.

Yours in the Danse Macabre,

Monsieur Edgar

CONWAY: Quite the grisly anecdote, if I say so. There’s no address, and even if there was, I doubt any of the involved parties would still be around to receive it. Its contents have been archived regardless, and there’s nothing in here that warrants storage in our vault, so...I guess I’ll see if our local history museum has any interest in it.

Heat.

CONWAY: Atomic clocks are the most precise keepers of time that we’ve made so far. They measure the radiation given off by an electron in a cooled cesium atom as it changes energy levels. A second has passed when the device’s oscillator measures 9,192,631,770 cycles of radiation.

Light.

I was good friends with her growing up. We played together a lot, shared secrets. She lost her arm when she was 10. Now that’s not just a figure of speech either. She actually lost it; no one knows where it went. We were out in the woods near Springfield climbing in trees, throwing rocks, and whatever else kids with busy parents did at that age. We found a cave, a small hollow spot in a wall of shale. She went in. I was worried about getting in trouble, so I waited outside anxiously.

Decay.

Eventually the oscillator’s measurements will be a little bit off. One second every few million years, or something like that. You know, everything breaks down; entropy gets the best of us all. She came out without her left arm, no pain, no tears. Doctors were surely flummoxed.

There’s really nothing written in stone that says decay has to go that way, though. What happens in that missing second every million years? Hey, have you tried to shove a handful of cereal in your mouth but drop some, then look down in disbelief as the puffed circles form a pyramid on the ground instead of scattering everywhere? You ever make a little sandcastle in the sun only to watch the wind sweep it away, piece by piece, and make it into an even bigger sandcastle a few feet away? Well, I hadn’t either, 'til then. 'Til she lost her arm.

I’ve been with this office for 6 years, but it might as well be a lifetime. Sure, I’d seen some weird stuff before, that’s why I got the job in the first place, but the sheer volume here can’t be a coincidence. They got me sorting through old mail looking for god knows what. I’ve got criteria, I’ve got a list, but it all seems pretty arbitrary if you ask me.

I mean like, “If the letter evokes sad memories of your childhood, it must not be delivered.” Yeah, okay, sure.

“If your nose itches while reading the letter, it may be delivered.”

I just don’t get it sometimes.

UNKNOWN VOICE ON PHONE: “Jeez that’s neat and all, but what does it have to do with the statue, Conway?”

CONWAY: I’m just trying to figure out what it all means. What it is.

UNKONWN VOICE: “Uhh It’s an angel, Conway.”

CONWAY: Well, yes, but...but why? Why Kenji? What’s the symbolism? What do angels do?

UNKNOWN VOICE: “I don’t know, like guide you up to heaven? Aren’t they the sort of like the go-betweens for god and us?”

CONWAY: You know, you may be onto something. They’re a connection, right? A bridge between the realms of heaven and earth. They hang around at the boundary between worlds, and they take you somewhere else. Somewhere different.

But where, though? Where...where's Ken--

*DIAL TONE, followed by BUSY SIGNAL*

DLO 6: GONE FISHING/MISSING

8 mars 2021 | 25 min

The Dead Letter Office receives a series of postcards from a place that doesn't exist. Conway takes a trip to his local art museum after some pieces go missing.

(CWs: beer, derealization)

TRANSCRIPTS:

CONWAY: This is Conway, receiving clerk for the dead letter office of ***** Ohio, processing the national dead mail backlog. The following audio recording will serve as an internal memo strictly for archival purposes and should be considered confidential. Need I remind anyone: public release of this or any confidential material from the DLO is a felony. Some names and places have been censored for the protection of the public.

A series of postcards, collectively titled Dead Letter 6910, postmarked May 17th 1980. The post office that initially received these cards were unable to determine the intended address and no return address was provided. They were apparently left on top of a cabinet for a few decades until that office closed. Agents clearing out the remaining equipment flagged these and sent them our way.

The front of the cards feature a white lighthouse, somewhat faded from exposure to the sun. Small cursive handwriting covers the postcards back to front. I’ve been able to place them in what I believe is the correct order. The messages read as follows.

LOST FISHERMAN, NARRATOR: It’s real easy to lose yourself fishing, to forget your troubles. It’s like a daydream. Now Lucy, I know fishing stories get exaggerated, but you’ve got to hear this one, sweetheart: it’s a real humdinger!

Me and Ken were out on the boat, cruising for fish. We had talked about going out on Lake Erie to nab a few meaty walleye last winter. All season I kept having the same dream: we’d be out on the drink, passing the hours doing a whole lot of nothing. I’d be almost in a daze when I’d hear the plop of my bobber dipping. I’d anchor my foot against the side of the vessel and start slowly reeling in the line. I could feel something pulling on the other end. Something big. We’d fight over the wire for minutes, then I’d finally hoist it out. A big, glistening golden walleye, almost as big as, jeez, my whole torso, you could say. But then Ken would hold up this weird upside-down painting of a lighthouse. While I was distracted, the walleye would wriggle its huge body and slip into the lake, disappearing into the deep. I’d peek up at the sun above the scattered clouds, sigh, then check my watch. But no matter how hard I tried, no matter what angle I’d look at it, I just couldn’t make out the time. Then I’d wake up.

Well since the weather’d warmed up, we figured it was about time.

So me and Ken were out on the Erie sitting on opposite sides of our little watercraft. He had this big orange life preserver on, which I still think’s a little showoffy, and his nose was white with zinc. He was gazing out over the calm water before he cast his line. It was a cool late spring morning, a little bit of haze still resting above the surface before the sun comes up and cooks it away like fat on the griddle. I flicked my wrist and sent my hook out into the lake, then reclined in my seat. I stuck my hand into the blue cooler at my feet and felt around for some jerky. Ken was still just scanning the lake, as if he was trying to find something that wasn’t there. He got this weird expression like he’d been pricked, then finally also cast his line.

We spent a while without a single bite. The morning bugs were starting to come out and swirl around the water’s surface. You know, in a way, fishing is kinda similar that new age meditation I saw on tv. You forget yourself and just be one with the fishing rod. Having a few brews handy helps with that, too.

I reached into the cooler for a beer and cracked the bottle open with a satisfying fizz. Well that finally caught Ken’s attention.

LOST FISHERMAN: “You want a cold one, buddy?” I offered.

KEN: “What brand did you bring?”

LOST FISHERMAN: “Well…” I turned around bottle in my hand, but the label was gone. It must have sweat off in the ice. “Something light. Don’t need to be getting sauced out on the lake in the middle of the day!”

Ken shrugged and took the slippery bottle. I peered over the edge at my reflection in the lake. The rippling water around the edge of the vessel distorted my face. Then the slack on my line went taut and the reel started unspooling. I shook myself from my thoughts and picked up my rod. I clicked the handle forward and started reeling her in. The drag was fierce, this must have been some fish! I braced my legs against the side of the boat and anchored the butt of the rod under the lip. I pulled and reeled in succession, but the more I struggled, the harder this thing was to reel in. My arms were getting weak, my face turned beat-red and no doubt made that strained expression you always laugh at. Ken sat and watched in shock.

KEN: “That must be some fish!”

LOST FISHERMAN: He muttered, then rushed over to me, pulling my shoulders and helping me keep my balance. We waged war with this fish, tug of war, that is, back and forth for what could have been 20 seconds or 2 hours. Eventually the line slackened, and we figured we’d worn this monster out. I puffed out a sigh, straightened my hat, and prepared to haul her in. I thrust my arms up and the line snapped, splashing me with lake water and sending me careening for the port edge. I landed on my backside with a crash. I dabbed the moisture in my mustache and rubbed my dinged elbow. Ken laughed and fished around in the cooler, pulling out another drink for me.

KEN: “Come on, I think you’ve earned it.”

LOST FISHERMAN: We sat quietly again for a time, waiting for another bite or just enjoying the little peace away from home. The bugs mostly left us alone once the sun was high. The warm rays of the afternoon combined with the sedating nature of the suds made me liable to doze off. My eyelids grew heavy and sank, blurring the glinting sun on the water into a band of soft light. The rocking boat lulled me into a trance, and my head dipped.

Before I could actually catch some Zs, Ken spoke up, real gravely. He was in front of me, his hand on my shoulder.

KEN: “Have you seen the duck yet?”

LOST FISHERMAN:“Which duck?” I asked. He closed his eyes and sighed.

KEN: “It’s rusting. Look this might sound boneheaded, How did we get out here again?"

LOST FISHERMAN: I blinked hard and pushed up the brim of my hat to get a good look at him through my sleepy eyes. “What d’ya mean, Ken? We drove out to the dock then motored out here.” He turned his gaze out over the water and shook his head. He asked if I remembered actually doing that and, well, now that he mentioned it, no. I just remembered being on the ship. “It was early, Ken,” I reasoned, “we were barely awake. I just can’t think on it right now’s all.”

He didn’t seem satisfied with that. He bent over the old cooler and rooted around to scoop out the rest of the bottles we had. He turned them my way.

KEN: “Look, no labels. You think every single one rubbed off in the cooler? You really can’t remember which brand you bought?”

LOST FISHERMAN: “C’mon Ken,” I said. “You’re acting funny. Not haha-funny either.” He took a step toward me. I was starting to get a little anxious.

KEN: “What’s my last name?”

LOST FISHERMAN: He asked. Lucy, I swear, I felt older than granddad. I knew what it was, but in that moment I couldn’t say. It was on the tip of my tongue, but nothing would come out. I felt prickling sweat running down the back of my neck. My hands were clammy and my mouth was bone dry. “Jeez Ken, w-what’s this all about? I thought we came out here to relax, not play ten thousand dollar pyramid together.” My stomach felt uneasy. Ken kneeled to my eye level and took off his hat.

KEN: “What’s your name?”

LOST FISHERMAN: What’s my name? What a damn silly question. He sounded serious though. What’d gotten into him? “I’m not playing around anymore, Ken.” I let out a bitter laugh. “Cut it out. You must be drunk, or seasick, or both. Yeah, that’s it. You know how you get off balance when we’re on the water. Here, lay flat on vinyl, it should cool your head down.”

KEN: “I’m not seasick, and I’m not drunk. Quit avoiding the question.”

LOST FISHERMAN: He had a queer kinda glint in his eye, and his mouth was screwed up in a grimace.

KEN: “What is your name, Lost Fisherman?”

LOST FISHERMAN: I wiped my sleeve across my upper lip to sop up the sweat that was beading under my mustache. I scratched at my neck with a shaky hand. I blinked hard a couple of times against the stinging sweat and sunlight. My poor gut was twisting itself up in knots. I was ready to go home and forget this ever happened. But Ken wasn’t about to let this go, not without me without answering his frankly asinine questions.

“Whatever’s gotten into you, Ken, I promise me saying my name’s not gonna help you. We have to get you to a doctor.” I got up on my wobbly feet and started toward the engine, fixing to speed us back to shore.

KEN: “Your name!”

LOST FISHERMAN: I raised my index finger and opened my mouth to yell, but nothing came out. I shut my trap and sunk my head. The world was spinning around me, my thoughts were swimming like fish in the lake. I couldn’t even remember my own name. I started coughing, almost heaving. I looked up again at Ken, who was just watching me. I tried to ask him to tell me what the hell was going on, but the words wouldn’t come together. I couldn’t remember a damn thing from before we were on that damn boat. My eyes darted around in a panic for any sign of familiarity: but there was no shoreline, no other people on the horizon. The jerky I brought was in a blank plastic baggie, the beers just brown bottles. My heart stuttered and shook like mice were chewing through my wires.

“Is...is this a dream?” I asked Ken, almost accusing him of something, though not sure of what, exactly.

KEN: “If this were a dream, we’d be in that boat instead.”

LOST FISHERMAN: He held out his hand, pointing starboard. I turned my head slowly, then I swallowed hard and looked. About a hundred yards off I saw a small canoe, Ken and me sitting in it, pointing back at us.

I swiveled my head back toward Ken in the painted canoe, then down at the wooden panels under my feet. Two oars were attached to the boat, and our fishing rods sat under the little seats near my boots.

He asked one last question.

KEN: “Do you have the time?”

LOST FISHERMAN: I turned my wrist over and tried to check the time on my watch. But I just couldn’t look at it. Everything was so as maple syrup.

KEN: “What time is it?”

LOST FISHERMAN: He repeated. I fought with all my might to glance at my watch. Its face was distorted, blurry and rippling in the corner of my vision. That winded me. I gasped and faced Ken. He leaned down to a panel in the floor of the boat and lifted it open, similar to a hatch for a crawl space. He flatly motioned with his hand to step inside.

So me and Ken climbed into the hole and stepped down a steel ladder below. At the bottom, we found ourselves standing in a dark, open area. Some kind of metal scaffolding was holding up a matte painting of trees over the lake. A spotlight was hoisted above a catwalk, its light shining onto where we were. Up above us I saw the wooden boat prop sitting on weighted rigging. It was surrounded by a plexiglass tank full of water no bigger than our rumpus room. It looked like we were backstage, or under the stage, of a theater.

I was totally flummoxed, unable to say or do a whole lot of anything. I heard something moving to my left. In my peripheral vision, I saw something dark, a figure in pure black, parting a set of curtains at the edge of whatever we were in, then it disappeared. Now Ken started walking slowly toward the curtains. I stood there, mouth hanging open like an ass, then hopped along to catch up to him. Behind us, I heard more of those silhouette people moving and muttering as they dismantled the lake set.

Ken stepped through the threshold and I followed. We ended up at the foot of an inverted lighthouse, hanging from God knows what and going way down below into the abyss under our feet. It was long, crumbling white stucco’d brick, covered in sharp gray icicles. There were a few cement stairs down to the stark black door leading inside. Ken extended his hand, signaling that I should go first. I stood in front of the dark door, and slowly turned the handle. I glanced back and Ken was gone.

Beyond the door was a spiraling staircase downward toward the bottom--er well, top--of the inverted lighthouse. I was surrounded by exposed red brick, and held onto the cold metal rail to steady myself. It was a narrow, claustrophobic descent, each step my rubber boots squeaked on the iron stairs. Moments passed in silence as the space got smaller and smaller.

I made it to the end of the staircase and saw an opening into a dark room ahead. Having nowhere else to go really, I stepped inside.

There was Ken again, tall, lanky, still in that silly orange vest and nose all white. He was standing next to a huge metal device, taller than he was at parts. Its surface was smooth and dark, maybe polished black iron. Its shape was curved and irregular, thick here, thin there, odd angles. Not a square or cylinder, nearly impossible to describe. It was humming, and letting off thick steam in slow curling ribbons. Its rancorous clattering and rumbling made me wince. It sounded like I was under the hood of a mean car. Ken was standing straight up with his hands folded neatly in front of him, clasping onto an empty golden picture frame. He locked eyes with me one last time and reached one hand out to this nightmare machine. His fingertips touched the sleek metal, and in a flash of light, he was gone, leaving just his lifejacket behind. I slowly moved closer to this machine, investigating where Ken just was. I could feel whatever this was giving off heat as it worked. My rubber sole depressed the corner of Ken’s foam vest as I stood next to the whirring thing. I put my shaking palm forth, and made contact with the Lucid Engine.

Now honey I know this sounds like nonsense, and this next part is gonna sound extra funny. You should be sitting for this last bit. Go grab a seat in the kitchen. I want you to think real hard on what I’m about to ask you. What’s my name? What did you do today before I wrote you this card? Yeah, I thought so. Now look up at the clock on the wall. What time is it?

We’ll be waiting for you at the top of the lighthouse.

CONWAY: I’ve searched for the address on these postcards, and not only does the street not exist, neither does the town. It’s supposed to be delivered to Aisling or Ashline? Ohio, which does not show up in any of our state records dating back nearly a century and a half. There only addressee is a “Lucy” something--the last name is smudged, indecipherable. The Ken figure was similarly elusive. Given the contents of the cards and the nonexistent recipient from a fictitious town, these postcards are undeliverable in quite a literal sense. DL-4910 will thus be stored safely in our vault.

CONWAY: A number of pieces have gone missing at the ***** museum of art. This only began after they received a strange new acquisition in the mail last week. As a dutiful employee of this venerable organization and art history major--or perhaps more pertinently the closest member of the Dead Letter Office to said museum--I’ve been assigned more field work.

*on tape: car door shuts, car starts, driving noises*

CONWAY ON TAPE: Now from what I’ve been told, a large crate showed up in the museum’s storage last Monday with no prior indication as to who may have delivered it. Rather than look this particular gift horse in the mouth, the museum accepted the donation and set out looking into its provenance. They found it historically noteworthy, I suppose, and set up a display for it. Since that time, 2 nearby oil paintings have completely vanished from the museum without a trace. I’m heading to that museum now to investigate with my trusty government-issue tape recorder.

*CONWAY singing on tape* I am a man of constant sorrow, I’ve seen trouble all my days. I bid farewell to Cincinnati, the place where I was born and raised. The place where he *indistinguishable lyric*

*click*

CONWAY ON TAPE: So they’ve got this exhibit cordoned off, and brought up all the packaging for me to look over along with the statue.

Let’s start with the piece itself. It’s about 6 feet tall, a carving of a winged woman, presumably an angel or perhaps a seraphim of some kind. Looks like marble. Her hands are clasped in front of her chest. Her features are smooth. The finer details of this sculpture appear to have been weathered by some time outside. Now nothing too exceptional, and not really my taste--

*click*

Nearby, I can see the former displays for the oil paintings. The info placards are still here, but the frames and canvases have vanished without a trace. Apparently the authorities weren’t able to find any any signs of theft and security cameras at all the exits show nothing out of the ordinary. It’s as if simply vanished into thin air. Now interestingly enough, there are several chairs nearby, closer to the sculpture than the paintings were, but none of them have been disturbed. So it’s either a standard theft--albeit one committed by an expert--or this sculpture has some kind of intrinsic definition of art and a penchant for larceny.

Now I’m not one to judge. Carpentry is certainly an art, as is furniture design. Maybe the sculpture sees things differently. Well let’s put this to the test. I’m sure the docents wouldn’t be too keen on trying it with anything from the collection, so it looks like I’m going to be doing my best impression of Picasso on my notepad.

*click*

All right I’ve placed my crude sketch at the foot of this statue, and uh, ten minutes later there's still nothing.

So it’s looking like theft is increasingly likely and my time is being wasted. And here I was excited to see a statue versed in aesthetic theory.

The return address on the packaging doesn’t indicate a name, but it does list some address out in Cali-for-ni-ay. A quick search indicates that it’s warehouse for shared by a CEO for a company called Thanatech. Now that sounds familiar, but I’ve got no reason to believe that this is anything our office should be involved with. Time to--

*click*

*on the phone in the car*

CONWAY ON TAPE: What do you mean he’s missing? Well it certainly would have been nice to know that an employee of ours is gone, yeah!

So--fingerprints were found all over this thing, and you didn’t think that was pertinent? Christ, all right, I’m turning around. I’ll be back in 10.

*click*

CONWAY ON TAPE: Jesus his prints really are all over this thing. Like head to base covered, all in different directions. Now we’re talking my language. What the hell was he doing?

*click*

CONWAY ON THE PHONE ON TAPE: Yeah, you got a description for me? Okay, tall, dark hair. Got a name?

Kenji Ta***. Right. I’ll get back to you.

*click*

CONWAY ON TAPE: Let’s try something else. Maybe my scribbling didn’t cut it for this thing. Maybe like the chairs. I wonder about facsimiles or forgeries. I’ve pulled up an image of Undergrowth with Two Figures by van Gogh on my work phone. I’m going to set it next to the sculpture and observe.

*Clattering noises, buzzing, same as in the lighthouse* Well, damn, that’s no good. I guess this thing disagrees with Bemjamin about a reproduction’s uhh authenticity. Well that's--

*click*

CONWAY ON THE PHONE ON TAPE: Yeah, it’s Conway again. Sorry my other phone is...indisposed. Now you’re going to want to box that thing up tight, make sure you wear gloves, and bring it out back. Keep it as far away from other pieces as you can on the way out, I want to emphasize that. I’ve got one of our guys coming with a truck to pick it up soon. Yeah. No! No, don’t call them, we’ll take care of it. We’ll update you as soon as we can. Yup. Okay, okay. Bye, now. Mm-bye--

CONWAY: We’ve catalogued this sculpture and assigned it the label Dead Object 07811. Further study will be necessary to determine its exact provenance and nature. For now, it will be stored safely and securely in our vault.

For the Dead Letter Office of ***** Ohio, this is Conway, signing off.

DLO 5: THE GREAT BLACK SWAMP

22 februari 2021 | 22 min

Conway receives a water-logged manuscript from a midwestern monster hunter of questionable character.

(CWs: mild drug use--cannabis, fire,)

TRANSCRIPTS:

Dead Letter 10609, a manuscript for some kook’s autobiography or memoir, sent to a less than reputable publishing company that shut its doors years back. It was flagged for inspection before it could be delivered due to some unknown fluid leaking from the package. Inside the package was the previously mention manuscript and a broken test tube. The most pertinent excerpts from what remains of the water-logged manuscript read as follows.

NARRATOR: It started, as so many terrible things do, in rural Ohio. You drive out deep into the flat midwest farmland, past the intersection of McCutcheon and 199, down narrow roads covered in gravel and framed by a split sea of cornstalks. You take the turn onto Holcomb road, and one way or another you’ll eventually hit Holcomb Woods--regardless of which way you’re going. Holcomb road cuts a straight line through the foliage. You can see one end from the other, given clear enough conditions.

Every kid in the area’s heard of Holcomb woods. The legend varies from school to school, vivid details emerging when the tale’s in the hands of a particularly clever storyteller, but some commonalities emerge: a vehicle, an accident, a tree, and some ghostly headlights. Some say it was a bus full of kids and a mad driver, others whisper of intoxicated teens. No matter the details, the story ends with a warning--or dare, depending on who is listening--drive down Holcomb road at night and you’ll come upon the passage through the dense trees. Before you pass under the arced branches, you’ll see a pair of headlights coming at you from the opposite direction. You can try to swerve out of the way, but they’ll pass right through you, then disappear. Some say you can still see the driver’s face in one of the trunks if the moon’s angle is just right.

Growing up, I wanted to work with animals. I was fascinated with animal behavior, with their taxonomies and eccentricities. I planned to go to the nearby state university after high school, study biology, zoology, whatever it took to get my dream job. That was until three friends and I took a trip down Holcomb road.

It was the final day of our last summer break before graduation. We were bumping along the rough country roads in an old Buick, blaring the kind of music specifically designed to make our parents wince. We slowed down when we saw the woods ahead, the black void in the center of the trees inviting us in. Of course, we’d all heard the stories before, each of us with our own personal vision of the fateful event that we would passionately defend. We stopped at the very edge of the trees and shut off the engine. Mosquitos tapped at the windows in the humid air. The only sign of our presence that remained was the gentle clinking of empty beer bottles rattling around in the backseat. We sat and waited. Somebody cracked wise about a ghost driver needing a ghost license. We were haughty and skeptical in the headstrong way that only teenagers--so sure of their own immortality--can be.

The driver was getting impatient, eager to return the rusty sedan to his parents before midnight and get inside in the central air. He reached for the keys, fixed to run the engine again, when two points of bright light emerged from the other end of the woods. We all went quiet, transfixed by the glow. The two points were close together, and smaller than headlights. They drew closer at a startling pace. The driver fumbled with the keys while the rest of us shouted at him to get it together. The keys hit the floor with a pathetic clink and we fell silent again.

The lights were right in front of us now, standing about seven feet in the air. Each was about the size of a baseball, casting an eerie pall across our stunned faces. These lights were attached to something bigger: they looked like the eyes of some strange creature. The hulking beast stood on two thin legs, leading up to a wide body covered in dense fur. It took a step toward the driver-side window and tilted its oblong face. Two long feathery tendrils twitched atop its head. A hooked claw tapped at the door.

I made eye contact with this thing from the passenger seat and felt a deep churn in my gut. Dread crept through my body. I could see every anxiety, every worst case scenario I’d ever imagined, play out in my head at once. The others burst into action simultaneously, all scrambling and reaching to find the keys under the seat. This entity seemed unsettled by our sudden movement and stepped back on its spindly legs. A huge pair of powdery wings spread out behind it. It flapped several times, then took off over the pale moonlit trees and disappeared. The driver snatched the keys from below the seat and we sped home.

After what felt like a century of silence, somebody in the back made a joke about the fuzzy bird man, assuring ourselves that it was probably just an eagle or local crackpot in a costume. I didn’t say anything the whole way. I was replaying the horrible visions in my head over and over. Classes would start next week, our last year of mandatory schooling before we all went our own ways in the adult world. That Wednesday, the high school caught fire, taking the lives of the driver, the two passengers in the backseat, and several other students and teachers.

From that moment, my interest in zoology vanished, and I became deeply fascinated by cryptozoology.

I’ve been all over this great state searching for signs of the paranormal and the cryptozoological. I’ve taken a dive in Lake Erie looking for Bessie, the South Bay monster. Didn’t find much there apart from some sunken boats, a lot of trees, and a weird skeleton with a human skull and fish tail. I’ve journeyed into forests and nature preserves for sightings of the grassman, also known as the skunk ape or the woodland sasquatch.

There are places here that are almost supernatural on their own. Small towns isolated in time, one-road-hamlets with ice cream stands across the street from stark white churches, 50s style diners and cash-only single pump stations. You’ll meet some of the friendliest, most earnest folk in the world in these towns. You may think you’ve finally died and gone to heaven. I’ve also come to know that a lot of places here in Ohio are about as close to hell as we humans will see. Little pockets of distilled hate, of insular folk hostile to anyone or anything different, rotting from the inside. Places that drain your spirit and crater your faith in humankind. Pretty towns full of mundane demons who would rather bleed their kids to death in plain view than acknowledge the world outside. Horrific poverty and destitution wrought by business and encouraged by politics with no fix in sight. Of course this isn’t isolated to any town or any state. It spreads and it festers across the midwest, through the rust belt, from coast to coast. With enough time on the road, you learn to keep mostly to yourself until you’re sure which you’re dealing with.

It was at one of these previously noted ice cream stands on one of the aforementioned grassman journeys that I overheard a possible sighting. It was early August, hot as all get out. I was about 15 minutes out from the largest nature preserve in the state. Sitting on a bench under a big plastic cone, I was trying my damndest to keep my chocolate vanilla twist from dripping onto my hand. Church was just letting out across the road. According to the sign out front, next week was chili week. A small family in dated formalwear trotted over for a post-worship treat. The kids squealed and ran off with their cones. Their parents sat on a bench not far from me. The father said he had a friend who went hiking yesterday and came across a strange clearing. It seemed to be a campsite, but there was no camping gear, no sign of a fire. The clearing was surrounded by odd broken branches, tangled and tied into dangling arcane symbols like wicked Christmas ornaments. Then there were the weird indentations in the dirt. Throughout the site was a sour, skunky smell. He didn’t give many clues as to where this site was, but given the description, I could narrow it down to a couple square miles of land. Besides, what other leads on the midwest bigfoot did I have?

As any seasoned hunter knows, sasquatches, swamp apes, Ohio dog men, the Loveland Frog, and other paranormal phenomena are most active in the early morning. I loaded my camouflage, german-engineered tactical backpack full of the usual supplies: a 1978 Canon F1 with several lenses (which many experts attest is the best camera for capturing the paranormal), 6 rolls of monochromatic 35mm film, motion sensors, an EMF reader for when I’m feeling so inclined, a hiking pole adorned with bells, a compass, a first aid kit, and of course clean water and snacks.

I set out on the trail just before dawn, camera in hand, looking for the possible hideout of the grassman.

After several hours of pleasant hiking in the estimated area, my eye stopped on a small trail running from the main path. Of course this could just be any random trail, but In my years of searching, I’ve learned to discard logic and follow my instincts. And my instincts said this trail was it. I screwed on the telephoto lens to my camera and crept forward through the tall grass and gnarled roots of towering hickory trees. I could hear something ahead, and through the first sluggish rays of hazy daylight saw snapped and hanging branches. Gnarled bundles of thin twigs twisted and tied into complicated, unrecognizable shapes. A ring of trees ahead cordoned off a small clearing. I could hear faint rustling, and picked up a distinct skunky aroma wafting from the site. I gently set down my pole and backpack. I went prone in the grass, resting my forearms on the backpack to steady my camera, and looked through the viewfinder.

I saw people. Several young people in tie-dye shirts and flared jeans, passing around a cigarette. I turned my gaze from the viewfinder to the site itself, but saw nothing. They weren’t there. Back to the camera and there they were. I adjusted the aperture and snapped a photo. They must have heard the click and turned my way. I froze, and looked up from the camera. There they were, in the clearing, plain as day.

One of the men held out an open hand in my direction. I slowly rose, my breaths short and quick. I started in their direction and breached the clearing. There were 5 of them, 3 girls and two guys. These people were completely silent, all in dated psychedelic clothing. Two of them were kissing on a log near the edge. The man before me had long hair bound by a headband and small round glasses, tinted a light shade of green. He wore a denim vest over a cream-colored turtleneck. A pendant dangled from his neck in the shape of a white butterfly. And his hand wasn’t so empty after all: in it rested a small, hand rolled cigarette of some kind, the ends twisted shut. I reached for it. It was solid. I took it and put it in my pocket. The man smiled, and pointed north. I understood the meaning of his gesture implicitly. Whatever I was after, it wasn’t here. No, instead of finding the midwest bigfoot, I found some teens making out and smoking grass. I thanked him, and he nodded quietly. I turned to leave the clearing, and when I looked back, they were gone again. I felt my pocket and yes, indeed, the illicit substance was still there. I shook my head to clear my thoughts. This was not the place I was looking for. The man pointed north. So that’s where I would go.

A vast swamp once covered much of northwest Ohio and parts of Indiana and Michigan, a shallow wetland carved eons ago by the slow retreat of glacial masses across the region. Thick patches of sycamores rose high over deep muck, flat marshes extended from Erie to the Maumee. Much of this swamp was drained in the 19th century to make room for cornfields and easier overland travel. Some segments of the swamp remain intact, however, and one such preserve was to be my next stakeout. I readied my usual gear and drove the old van north, through the featureless heart of the state, the land of a thousand antique shops and cheese barns. I only stopped occasionally under the harsh fluorescence of gas station limbo to refresh my caffeine supply or stock up on protein bars. As I drove down the side roads and country highways, the sun sank into the earth, the tall cornfields hiding its parting rays. I spotted a vacant motel with no name. I pulled into the lot and booked a room. Moths and flies drunkenly swayed around the bare fluorescent bulb outside, dancing and stumbling in their reverie.

Once I settled in for the night, I figured what better place to smoke a mysterious joint than a derelict motel? I am a man of science (in some definitions), after all, and by this time it had been a few decades since my last indulgence. I put my lighter to the bent stick of dope and inhaled. The smoke was palatably cheap, skunky, stale, almost earthy, like it had been abandoned in a pair of bellbottoms for a century and was later uncovered and subsequently consumed by some groovy professors on an anthropological dig. Halfway through, I put it out. I felt pleasantly toasty for about 30 minutes before dozing off.

Around midnight, the rotary phone rang on the bedside table. The old clanging felt nostalgic, but not in the good “remembering the smell of your favorite gum” kind of way. More like being reminded of the day your pet died, or how your dad reacted when he found your stash. Familiar dread, I'd call it. I reached my hand out through the bleary darkness for the white plastic receiver and hesitantly put it to my ear. I spoke, *Hello?* but my voice echoed back at me. I made a clicking noise with my tongue *click*, which once again came back through the line. I pressed down the hook to hang up, and the line went quiet. I lifted my hand, and through the earpiece I heard keys gently jingling on a chain, the stutter and rumble of an engine, the buzzing of assorted insects. I pressed the switchhook once more.

Then I was sitting in my van with the engine idling, pulled off a gravel road and parked parallel to the boundary of some thick woodlands. The window was cracked to let in some of the humid vegetal air. I absentmindedly batted at the keys hanging from the ignition. Crickets played the hits in the tall grass ahead, while mosquitos vied for dominance over my arm. The receiver was still in my hand, tethered via coiled wire to cradle in the passenger’s seat. I hung up the phone and peered into the dark. This was North. In my line of work, you can either just accept the strange things you see and hear as-is, just go with the lunatic flow of the universe, or drive yourself mad trying to explain it all. I had decided long ago to stick with the former. So I grabbed my bag from the back, shut off the engine, and stepped through the threshold into the Great Black Swamp.

Now if you’re not well-versed in wilderness exploration, it’s easy to get lost in a place like this: the boughs of the tall sycamores obscure the stars, frequent marshes and flooded plains render tracks impossible. Even easier still to get lost if you’re a little buzzed on a puff of ghost grass. Getting lost in the woods in an unfamiliar area at night is dangerous, reckless, and yet it’s also the genesis of nearly every cryptozoological, supernatural, and scatalogical tale this side of the Rallys-Checkers divide.

I hid my compass in my pocket for the return trip and set about getting lost. Every couple hundred yards or so, I would pluck a leaf from a tree and drop it, spinning and twirling, to the ground. Whichever way the tip of the leaf pointed was my new direction. This method requires patience and some trial-and-error, but produces results that are most unpredictable. So in this manner, I trudged through the thick muck and tangled undergrowth of the glacier’s footprint. I mostly stayed on the drier land when I could: sasquatches surely don’t like waist-deep swamp water full of leeches and who-knows-what-else anymore than the rest of us.

The night was still and hot, and prevented any natural cooling. I wandered in random directions in a humid hazy odyssey. Clouds of mosquitoes buzzed at my damp ears and neck. Trees before me looked ominous and infinite, the swamp stretched under my feet to unknown horizons. The muck held onto my boots with every step and threatened to pull me deep into the black earth, as if the land itself was fighting my presence. I figured myself much like the early loggers and settlers in the area. I was unwelcome here, and the local flora and fauna were eager to let me know.

It went on and on like this for hours, until I heard a bubbling to my right. Exhausted, drained of a not-insignificant quantity of blood, and still a little fried, I wondered at first if it was my imagination. This notion was quickly dispelled when a hanging bundle of twigs hit me in the forehead, just like the ones I’d seen before. Ahead, I spotted a patch of ripples. I waded into the turbid water toward the troubled bubbles.

Rather than getting deeper with each step, the swamp around my feet receded, and the rippling spot ahead rose. Dark water rushed in toward the center as it peaked like a cresting wave. The swamp took shape, a towering obelisk of wet mud, clay, branches, and vines, resembling the twisted woodland decorations. Small alien spheres bubbled to the surface and roots reached out like the tentacles of some alien being. I extended my hiking stick to poke at one of the spheres. The mud lifted from its surface like a lid, and below was a yellow eye with a slit pupil. The other spheres opened, an assortment of different sinister eyes in all manner of shapes and colors. Frothy swamp water babbled from its center as it rasped, gurgled, and screeched a crustacean free jazz boogie. This was no skunk ape, no grassman or Loveland frog.

It lurched toward me. I tried to turn and run, but I was stuck: the thick sludge and vegetation left under the water had trapped my boots for real this time. My ragged breaths came more erratically as I struggled to pull at the straps on my shoes, hoping to free them from the muddy midwest’s toxic grip. I nearly got one free when my hand slipped from the wet strap and flew outward, brushing against one outstretched tendril of this creature.

Thousands of words and ideas instantly rushed through my hand, into my head simultaneously, overlapping and combining into a soup of confused imagery: bread juice, cowboys holding hands underwater, The Great Gatsby but every page is alive and hostile. A wave of images zoomed out so far they’re just dots in a complex pointillist wave. My mind was completely overwhelmed, endlessly repeating and synthesizing nonsense phrases and patterns. In a burst of colored light and dust--a negative image of the scene before me--I exploded and I died.

Or so I thought, until I realized I had just been closing my eyes too hard. I rubbed at them with my sweaty fists and received another round of mental fireworks, then looked ahead again. The murky obelisk was still there, creeping toward me with malicious intent. But so was something else. Something familiar, standing on spindly legs, strange antenna atop its head, and powdery soft wings. Here it was again, some decades later. It flapped its wings at this muck monster and the abomination fell, the water returning and filling the land around my feet. The winged creature turned back to me, its wide glowing eyes locked unblinking with mine. It pointed with one of its clawed feet to my thigh. Oh god, I thought, this is it. Am I going to lose my leg? Gangrene, trench foot, gout? I yelped and stumbled, my boot coming loose from the wet earth, then fell backward into the swamp.

I looked up into the twisted canopy and saw the gentle light of the moon peeking through the gaps in the branches. Then the eyes were above me again, and the clawed foot pointed at my leg once more. I felt at my thigh for any sign of injury or interest. That’s when I felt it: the last half of my occult reefer cigarette. My fingers fished into my damp pocket and pulled out the crushed, half-smoked spectral spliff. I extended my open hand toward this fuzzy creature. One of its hooked feet bent upwards at an unnatural angle and took its prize, its token for sparing my life once more. Through all my journeys, it turns out the mothman was pretty groovy and just wanted to be smoked out and relax for once.

By the time I made it back to the van, I was soaked in grimy water, bitten head to toe, and totally sober. I sat in the van for a long time in silence. I rubbed my oily, stubbly chin and thought for as long as I could tolerate. Then I picked up the receiver in the passenger’s seat and dialed my mother’s number.

It ended, as so many surreal nightmares do, in rural Ohio. You drive out through the soy fields owned by one company full of patented seeds, past the poison miasma of suburbia and into the real deep country night, under the blistering stars and spires of rock and steel and into the Great Black Swamp, where there yet remains a sliver of the unknown.

CONWAY: Tests run on the inciting liquid returned a rather mundane result: particles of dirt, vegetation, and microscopic lifeforms suspended in water. In other words, a simple water sample, likely from a swamp or marsh. As such, this letter, DL-10609, has been deemed undeliverable due to both contamination and an invalid address. The manuscript will be dried and subsequently stored in our vault. For the Dead Letter Office of *****, Ohio, this is Conway, signing off.

DLO 4: HEARTS AGLOW/SAVIOR

1 februari 2021 | 29 min

Valentine's Day comes early as a city in California replaces its old sodium-vapor streetlights with LEDs, and Conway receives a sign from above.

"My Prayer" originally composed by Georges Boulanger, Carlos Gomez Barrera, and Jimmy Kennedy, covered by the Platters, covered by me.

(CWs: some strong language, brief phallic language, food/brief crunching, death)

TRANSCRIPTS:

CONWAY: This is Conway, receiving clerk for the Dead Letter Office of ***** Ohio, processing the national dead mail backlog. The following audio recording will serve as an internal memo strictly for archival purposes and should be considered confidential. Need I remind anyone: public release of this or any confidential material from the DLO is a felony. Some names and places have been censored for the protection of the public.

This case begins with a letter, Dead Letter 135707, and a recorded radio broadcast of unknown origin. Our research indicates that after a series of complaints regarding faulty streetlights in July 2016, a city in California formed a commission to replace their aging sodium-vapor lamps. City council partnered with a local tech company to quickly remove the old lights and install bright new LEDs. They sent out a notice of the planned change to all residents within city limits. This prompted the aforementioned letter in response. The letter and the radio broadcast were sent on different days, the broadcast recorded before the plan was even public, but arrived at the commission at exactly the same time. It...spiraled out from there.

A carrier noticed the mail buildup at the listed address of this supposed commission--a burned out church--and sent it our way to sort through. These are the collected letters, voicemails, emails, and other communications surrounding the days following in summer 2016.

MARY: Dear City Council,

I’m a zoologist with the University of ******. I just heard about your proposal for our streetlight issue, and I have a few concerns. First, it should be noted that the views presented here are strictly my own, and do not reflect the opinions of the university or its administration.

From what I’ve read about the commission’s plans, it seems that the city will be removing the low-pressure sodium bulbs we use now and replacing them with high-efficiency LED lights, funded partially by Thanatech. While I do think it’s a good use of taxpayer dollars to upgrade our city’s infrastructure, and efficiency is definitely desirable, my concern lies in the LEDs themselves. Our old sodium-vapor lamps may not be the brightest or most aesthetically pleasing, but these supposed deficiencies may be important. Inside low-pressure sodium bulbs, metal is heated, causing it to emit a yellowish light. This warm, relatively dim light sits around or below about 2200 kelvin, significantly warmer than natural sunlight. The LEDs you’re planning to use sit somewhere between 4000 and 6000k, the approximate color temperature of actual daylight.

So why does any of this matter, you may be thinking? Well, although these lamps aren’t great for helping us see at night, they may be better for our furry friends. It’s theorized that brighter, bluer light, like that provided by LEDs, can trick segments of the brain into thinking that it’s actually daytime. I worry that replacing our whole grid with these bulbs could have a negative effect on our local wildlife. If a bunch of birds, bats, raccoons, and skunks think it’s daytime when it’s really midnight, we could have more problems on our hands than flickering street lights. The wavelengths of light emitted by these LEDs could disrupt their behavior, and may throw off their circadian rhythms. Disrupted sleep can cause serious problems, from common irritability and sluggishness, which we often see in ourselves, to memory issues, paranoia, aggressive or impulsive behavior, lack of appetite, even hallucinations, and so on. While I think fixing our streets is a good idea, I don’t think it’s worth potentially upending our entire local ecosystems in the process. Surely we can come to some kind of middle-ground and just get new sodium lamps, right? That is, unless you’ve already paid for Thanatech’s LEDs with our tax dollars.

Either way, thank you for taking the time to consider my concerns.

Best wishes,

Dr. Mary ****, class of 2005

CONWAY: Postmarked July 11th, 2016, arrived July 12th 2016. The following radio broadcast was sent July 5th, 2016 and arrived July 12th, 2016.

CRACKLING VOICE ON THE RADIO: Good evening, ladies and gentleman. I'm here to tell you there’s electricity in the margins on the page, an atom bomb’s worth. In the space between the words, there’s energy. The things we can’t see are made of that energy. They travel through the wires and hide in stoplights. We can’t see them because we are not meant to see them. They come out at night and ride on the electrons in the air. Ladies and gentleman, we are made of electrons. When that twilight is gone, and no songbirds sing, God comes through the lines and sits in the streetlights. He waves, but you can’t see it. Should we all be so lucky as to be touched by the waving man in the light.

CONWAY: The following voicemail was sent to the commission on July 17th, 2016.

MITCH ON THE PHONE: Hey mayor dipshit, these new lights are so bright they’re going straight through my curtains. How the hell is any of this even allowed? Who’s paying for this? I didn’t elect some CEO dillweed to be in charge of our city, I elected you. And let me guess, they were paid for by our tax dollars? If I wanted this kinda open corruption with big business, I woulda stayed there in West by god Virginia. I haven’t slept in two days, and since the new lights went up in this neighborhood, they’re driving me up a wall. And since when did this renovation deal mean more plainclothes cops? Were those paid for by us too? I’ve seen the same jerk hanging out around my street every night, but no cop car. I can’t get a good look at him, but he’s dressed dark and keeps moving around between lampposts. Seems like he’s patrolling. Maybe like law enforcement, or even a g-man. Can you PLEASE have a meeting with the commission to see if you can do anything about this decision? Name’s Mitch by the way, disgruntled taxpayer number who the hell even knows now.

CONWAY: Email sent to To ******* on July 18th, 2016 at 9:15PM Pacific Standard.

LIZ: God, I miss you, Priya. I haven’t been sleeping well, or I mean I guess worse than usual. I haven’t been this exhausted since high school track. I hear people moving around at ungodly hours every night. Though, to be fair, I’m sure they hear me up too. The city put in these super bright new street lights everyone hates them. People have been talking about like going to city hall to protest they're that bad.

Everyone’s on edge. I came really close to losing it at this girl who cut in front of me at the self-checkout. She didn’t even see that I was there. I don’t know what came over me. While I was there, I heard someone tell the cashier a weird story about people loitering outside apartment buildings. I thought I saw something like that today, actually. Looked like a tall guy, but I mean I couldn’t make out any features or even like his clothes. He kinda shifted around and then went away. Just disappeared. I’m pretty sure it was just somebody’s shadow from the balcony, though. Like with the lights these bright, you can make some pretty sick shadows. You’d have freaked out. Hope Munich is treating you well now that you’re settled in. Call me in the morning. Morning my time or yours I guess, it's not like I’ll be asleep anyway.

<3 <3 xo Liz

MITCH ON THE PHONE: Hey, Mary, it’s Mitch, I know you screen calls but you should recognize my number by n--Oh shit, I can hear the cops outside somewhere. Sirens going, maybe an ambulance. I guess it got ugly at city hall. Doesn’t surprise me given how everyone’s been acting. I’m gonna see if I can maybe like...I can kinda see somebody through the blinds. Not sure if it’s that cop, he’s just standing there. Can’t really make out...hold on...what the hell? It’s like I can’t really see him. Just all dark. Looks like a shadow or something. I keep thinking he’s moving closer, but Mary, he’s not moving. He’s just...rippling. No, no this can’t be real. Okay, I need to sleep but by God, it’s so bright. What’s he...okay he’s gone. Call me as soon as you get this. Stay safe down there, please don’t get arrested, and hurry on back now.

MARY: Christ Mitch, just got your message. Can’t call, too loud down here. Have to text. Ducked out of the crowd for a minute before some people in black showed up. Sounds like they’re down here, too. Not sure what they’re doing, just head-to-toe black standing under the streetlights. National Guard? FBI? Too far away to tell. Was getting a major headache, stepped out for some water and air. May head home soon. Not sure. Doesn’t seem like anyone’s listening to us anyway. Some sirens nearby. Have to go.

CONWAY: To ******* sent on July 19th 2016.

LIZ: Yeah, some people marched downtown today. I was gonna go but I had to work. It’s getting wild down there now, kinda glad I stayed home, actually. So Yeah I’m safe, but I think I’m losing my mind without you here. The power in the neighborhood just went out. Of course it didn’t take the street lights out with it. OF COURSE IT DIDN’T. One of the Thanatech bulbs was smashed a few buildings down, but it’s not enough, I still can’t sleep. On top of that, I keep seeing people in front of our building, dark figures gathered under the streetlights. I thought about ordering banh mi, but nah. Mac and cheese and the Sims for me tonight. I wish I could have come with you to Germany. I bet the mountains are just gorgeous, and I bet they don’t have street lights so bad people protest over it there. It just feels like one long day here that never, ever ends. Well, I took some melatonin and put up the new blackout curtains. They’re hideous, you'll probably hate them. But they were the only ones in stock, so eh, not much choice. Wish me sweet dreams, I’ll call you whenever I wake up, assuming I can sleep at all.

Xs, et cetera, Liz

MITCH ON PHONE: I didn’t hear my phone buzz til now. The power is still out up here. I figured you’d be home by now, Mary. Are you okay? God why is it so dark in here? I just saw him outside again. He looked like he was flickering, like his body wasn’t totally solid. Oh god. Maybe it was real? That just can’t be, unless the government’s testing out some new stealth technology or whatnot. The streetlights are still on but God it’s pitch black in here. Wait shouldn’t the sun be up by now? Clock says it’s 9 in the morning and it’s still dark out. My phone must be broken, right? What does yours say? It can’t be this dark at 9. And you should be home by now. God damn I could hear him, crackling like a live wire. Man it’s so hot. My head feels fuzzy. I must be paranoid. I’m paranoid. I need to calm down. I called you for a reason. Why did I call you again.

Oh my god there’s more of them out there now. God, I can see them through the blinds. They’re just...moving around, jittery and shaking, following people down the sidewalk. I gotta get out--I’m getting the hell out of here while I still can. Don’t come back home yet, I don’t think it’s safe. Just get inside somewhere, anywhere, please.

Okay, I’m on the road. Traffic’s shit like always, but I’m heading for that church, not our usual one but you know the one we went to for pancakes that one time? They burnt yours something fierce but you ate 'em anyway. They’ve got a backup generator. They might still have regular lights on. People keep running in front of the cars. Are they running from those things? Christ, it looks like a zombie movie out here. Just saw a fistfight, a carjacking, and a guy biting somebody’s arm in the span of a block. Then a person fell out of a palm tree onto the median. There are people outside just...gone buck wild, Mary. I don’t know what’s going on, but there are these shadowy people keep coming out under the streetlights from the dark. I don’t know if they’re cops or FBI or or terrorists or what but they scare the hell out of me. Make my reflux act up something fierce. Looks like the traffic lights are out, I gotta stop and see

*buzzing sounds*

Oh no no no, there’s one close now and here I am stopped. He’s reaching out to somebody, his hand is it’s shaking and sparking. *GASP* He touched the guy and oh god oh god his body went dark and his heart was...I could see it, glowing like it was on fire from the inside...and now he’s gone. What the HELL is going on. I gotta get to the church, could be people there, safer in numbers, you know? Where the hell are you, Mary? Get inside and CALL M--

CONWAY: To: ****** sent July 19th 2016 at 12:06PM Pacific Standard Time.

LIZ: I woke up to the sound of electrical humming in our apartment, a bright light in the kitchen. I peered into the kitchen and saw one of those...things standing there and touching the outlet. This wasn’t a shadow. Not this time. Which means what I saw before...

Its shape was flickering and undefined. Like a shadow haloed in white light, like a swirling mass of black wiring on fire. My hair stood on end as a sick shock ran through my body. I felt dizzy, like I couldn’t look at it without getting vertigo. Every time I tried to look, my vision went blurry and I heard that terrible buzz. I don’t know how, but I knew in this moment, Priya, that this thing was going to kill me.

You know I’m not big on religion, but I prayed. To whom exactly? I can't say, I just sent out a plea into the ether to see you one last time before the end. This crackling hum started to get louder as this thing drew near. As voltage ran through my fingers and toes. I could feel my chest getting hot. All I could think of was you.

The entity warbled and shook like a vibrating waveform as it reached for me. Then there was a crash outside, loud rending metal on metal, that shook me out of it. I ran to the window and flung it open. I was fully gonna jump out, if necessary, height be damned. Someone’s car ran into the streetlight across from our building, the one right in front of the church. The lamp bent, the bulb exploded, and glass rained on the crumpled hood. The light went out, and the hum in our kitchen stopped. The thing vanished back into the outlet when the light went dark. Then the driver fell out of his crashed car with a shocked look and stumbled into the church, where lights were still on.

I tried to put my boots on but my hands were shaking too much to tie the laces, so--sorry--I just crammed my feet into the slippers you left and ran out the door. The heavy door swung open and the cacophony of the street fully hit me. I could hear people in the building yelling, crying out their windows. Cars were honking, voices screaming and laughing. There was a fire somewhere, and smoke drifting gently over the hedges.

Some guy on the sidewalk heard the door creak open and turned my way. He pulled out a switchblade, the sleek metal gleaming in the hot still air. He started running, knife ahead of him. Then I saw another one of those things under a light. As the knife guy passed under the light, this shadow thing touched him. He screamed, and his voice echoed down the street into a bassy inhuman hum. Glowing white light shot from his mouth, and his heart lit up through his chest like a flashlight. His whole circulatory system sparked with this light, then he was dust.

I can't say I've seen anything like it, and I don’t think I will again. Two more hissing in the other direction brought me back to reality. I ran straight for the church. At least I knew there were people there. Like real people.

I shouldered the heavy church entrance and busted into the main hall. I saw the guy from the car with a gash on his forehead. He looked up with a start. Blood dripped onto the floor in a thin line from his forehead.

There are about a dozen people here in total, all terrified. The guy in the crash has seen those things too. I told him what I just saw. That they don’t just hang out in the lights, they’re somehow connected to the lights I think. Told him one disappeared when his car broke the streetlight outside. He’s been on his phone a lot since I’ve gotten here. I mean, everyone has. I guess everybody’s got somebody to check on, someone to worry about. A few of us are gathering what little supplies are here so we can ration them out. Some water bottles, a bag of chips, some communion wafers, a phone charger. The driver--his name's Mitch, by the way--asked us if we had any guns, preferably long guns. He wants to knock out the lights before it gets any worse. Jesus, Priya, you sure picked a hell of a time to leave. My phone says it’s noon, but it’s still dark. I guess I accidentally set it to Munich time. Oops, shows how much I want to be there. Please god, please, Priya, be safe. I don’t want to have to pray again, especially not in a church.

MITCH ON THE PHONE: I made it to the church, car’s toast though. If we’ve still got jobs after this, we’ll worry about it then. If you’re still downtown, get out of the streets. It’s the god damned lights. Young girl, Liz--real nice--said these things come out of the lights or wires or something. Not sure I understand it let alone believe it, but after what I’ve seen today, I’ll believe just about anything. Some other people are here at the church. None of them got guns, though, so we’re gonna take these lights out the old fashioned way. I’ve seen what those things can do, and I don’t want to see it happen again. I mean, there’s kids here, Mary, no older than 10.

*MITCH TO GROUP* All right, now I’m not trying to appoint myself disaster dictator or anything, but I was a union boss for 14 years, so I’m used to wrangling people and what the bosses call uhh “delegating tasks”. Anybody got a problem, just say so and I shut my trap. No objections? All right, so anyone play baseball? Throwing rocks ain’t too different, to be honest with you. Same fundamentals. You two, check the back rooms for any bottles, bricks, hell even shoes, anything hard we can throw. And you, go out back and see if you can hit the one along the east. Don’t go too far, and take someone with you to cover your six. These guys are quick, and they’re quiet, until they’re right on you. We’ve got a few supplies. Get these snacks to the kids, I’m sure they need em more than I do ha. Anybody still got people still out there? Yeah...yeah, me too. Look, I’m gonna say everything’s fine. But if what Liz said is true, all we gotta do is break some glass, and wait for help to arrive. I’m sure if we could figure it out, others have too. So let’s--

*buzzing, humming noises*

MITCH: Oh shit, there’s one here now. Everyone back away from the door and don't touch it! These things are deadly to the touch. Back into the corner, check if there’s a lock on that side door. Okay, maybe WHAT ARE YOU DO--

*loud buzzing*

MITCH: Oh god, oh godI’m gonna be sick...All right. No time, no time. Since that thing’s gone, grab some pews, let’s blockade the do--

*click*

CONWAY: Sent to ***** July 19th 2016 at 1:58PM Pacific Standard Time.

LIZ: Hey, how is Munich this time of year? To be honest, I’ve never been out of the country. Really wish I could have visited while you were there. Listen Priya, I don’t don’t know if I’m going to make it much longer. One of those things is in the church, more gathering outside, and my battery’s low. I think this is really it. This is the end. Who knew we’d go out like this? I kind of figured you know global warming or some kind of nuclear fallout was gonna be the thing. But here are kids crying in the pews wrapped in their moms arms, voices in the distance howling. Pops of gunfire echoing down the streets. The sky is so dark, no moon, no stars. The tile floor is still streaked with blood and I can smell tires burning down the road. Just constant sirens, and the ominous thrum of a helicopter somewhere. Everything we built for so long fell apart so fast.

Listen, I love you, and I’m sorry I forgot to wash the dishes and always left my socks on the floor. I’m sorry I didn’t spring for the international data before you left.

I know it’s dumb, but I can’t stop thinking about the time I accidentally dropped your phone in the pool. You were so mad, but you probably don’t even remember now. I still feel bad about it. I was going to ask you to marry me before you left, but...I chickened out. I guess it’s too late now, but will you anyway? The only thing I want is to see you one more time, to spend one more day together before it’s all over.

I’m not going to die in this church, though. I'm gonna make a run for it. I used to be pretty fast, maybe I can get the cops, or whoever and we can help these people out of here and bring down the streetlights together. So consider this is one last prayer from the atheist. Let’s hope I’m wrong.

If I don’t make it, I’m sorry about that too.

CRACKLING VOICE ON THE RADIO: If you make the margins big enough, you can see him in the dots and waves. He comes through the wires, he’s a frequency, an atom bomb’s worth of electricity. Ladies and gentlemen, I believe the whole city has seen him tonight. He’s spoken through the lines. He says it’s the end of the world, and no one’s coming to save us. He says it’s too late for prayer. At the end of the day, turn up the volume on the airwaves and listen. You’ll hear the the end of the world in the crackle of vinyl. Listen closely, it sounds like this.

*music begins*

LYRICS: When the twilight is gone and no songbirds are singing When the twilight is gone, you come into my heart And here in my heart you will stay While I pray My prayer is to linger with you At the end of the day in a dream that's divine My prayer is a rapture in blue With the world far away and your lips close to mine Tonight while our hearts are aglow Oh tell me the words that I'm longing to know

My prayer and the answer you give May they still be the same for as long as we live That you'll always be there

CRACKLING VOICE ON THE RADIO: Listen closely, and you’ll hear the end of the world.

CONWAY: Given that the sun did indeed come up for the rest of the state, official reports have determined this incident one of the rare recorded cases of actual mass psychogenic illness, sometimes less sensitively titled mass hysteria. This was seemingly brought on by severe sleep deprivation among the city’s residents, further spurred by the odd radio broadcasts. We at the DLO tried to contact those involved with the city’s commission, but most information regarding this streetlight project has been wiped clean besides a false address and the initial missive. Representatives for Thanatech have declined to comment.

Our research showed no signs of the several people who went missing that night, and no remains have been found. One odd report did contain a blurry image of a married couple somewhere in Leipzig that resembled the posters, but no further information was provided.

Per the DLO, all of the preceding communications have been deemed undeliverable, and all physical devices containing records of said communications have been collected for storage in our vault.

CONWAY: Well this one ought to be quick. A small package, Dead Object 06908, addressed simply to “Ripley.” A carrier tried to deliver it to a nearby aquarium, but it was no longer in business, and was thus forwarded to us. A short note accompanies the box, which reads: “I believe this item will be of interest to you. I put a slice of bread in the toaster one morning--Just a regular old toaster!--and wouldn’t you know it: when it came out, the spitting image of our lord and savior was burned into the toast. I think this is important somehow.”

All right now before I even open the package, this sort of thing is so commonplace it’s downright cliche. Elvis showing up in a piece of cheese, or a wine stain in the shape of Princess Di’s face. Whether it’s faked or some poor sap reading too much into random dark spots doesn’t really matter. The point is it’s hardly unusual. Hell I bet now they’ve even got toasters just for this purpose. Well, let’s just see what we’ve got anyway.

*box opens*

CONWAY: Good lord that is phallus...for lack of a more scientific term. Um, very lifelike, burned onto what appears to be a thin slice of white bread. No mold visible, *sniff* no sour smell. Now I must admit, this is highly unprofessional, but it’s almost lunchtime and my curiosity is mighty piqued.

*Toast crunches*

CONWAY: That’s white bread all right, branded with a big dick. Well this package certainly seems deliverable, I’ll make sure the rest of this little curio gets to Mr. Ripley’s estate. For the Dead the Letter Office of ******, Ohio, this is Conway, *crunch* signing off.

DLO 3: HOLES/THE KING HAS LEFT THE BUILDING

18 januari 2021 | 18 min

The Dead Letter Office receives a series of emails from a college student with recurring nightmares. Conway takes a trip to investigate a kitschy painting.

Don't forget to rate, review, and subscribe if you like the show!

(CWs: trypophobia, alcohol, finger damage, depictions of depression)

TRANSCRIPT:

CONWAY: This is Conway, receiving clerk for the Dead Letter Office of ***** Ohio, processing the national dead mail backlog. The following audio recording will serve as an internal memo strictly for archival purposes and should be considered confidential. Need I remind anyone: public release of this or any confidential material from the DLO is extremely felonious. Some names and places have been censored for the protection of the public.

Dead letter 13905. A series of emails were sent to the Environmental Protection Agency of Ohio over the course of many months in 2015. There was some concern among the higher-ups at the agency that these emails may be more pertinent to our work at the DLO rather than the EPA. They were intercepted and forwarded to us, and have been subsequently opened and read. The emails read as follows:

KARA, NARRATOR: Dear Rick,

I’m a senior at um **** ***** State University. I’ve been dreaming about holes--dark caves, coves along the shore, deep black as far in as I can see. This may not seem relevant at first, but I promise it'll come up, keep reading. I dream about sinkholes opening in a busy city street; gaps in clusters of coral growing from a sunken boat; a bloody bullet-wound in my leg; a honeycomb. This isn’t the first time I’ve dreamt about holes. There’s something I find revolting and unsettling about their emptiness. Maybe it’s ingrained in our lizard brains that holes are not good. Maybe that’s why aliens in our movies and comics always have those giant, endlessly black eyes.

I dream more dreams about holes. I dream about trying to fill an infinite pool with a small garden hose. I dream about empty pomegranates. Others are deeply upsetting: confused imagery, lotus pod faces, choking revulsion, claustrophobia.

I haven’t been sleeping well, and I can’t seem to focus on my schoolwork at all. My grades are starting to slip and I’m not sure how to proceed. I haven’t told anyone about the dreams yet. Talking about dreams to other people is pointless anyway; either they get it and nod along with you or they don’t get it at all and just nod along out of courtesy. It’s like having to explain why a joke is funny, it kills the whole prospect.

After days of restless nights dreaming about holes, it’s hard to not notice them just...everywhere. Pupils are just holes in your eyes. Don’t look at close-up pictures of eyes. Empty spaces on bookshelves, open windows. Pores on peoples’ faces yawn wide. Cavities burrow into teeth, worms dig through soil.

Anyway, I was doing some much-needed vacuuming on a Sunday morning and had to move the rug in the middle of my room to sweep under it. I pulled at the fabric, then paused. Two of the wooden planks underneath seemed a little farther apart than they should be. I tried to remember what the floor looked like last time I vacuumed. It had been a while, but I don't think they were that far apart. After all of these dreams about empty spaces, I figured I was just imagining things. I put the rug back over the boards and continued cleaning.

Over the next few weeks or so, I didn’t really think about the space under the rug. I carried on with my dull work and repetitive life for a few weeks. That is, until a tube of chapstick fell off my coffee table and rolled strangely toward the center of the rug. Where it stopped, the slight weight of the tube made the rug sink. I hesitantly moved the table and reached out for the edge of the rug. The gap between the floorboards was definitely bigger this time. I started looking for answers online. Wood warping, leaky pipes, sinkholes, fracking quakes, ball lightning coming through electrical sockets; all manner of strange natural incidents can occur in your house, but none of this seemed to quite fit the symptoms.

Anyway, now that the wordy preamble is out of the way, this is why I’m contacting you. I figure ODNR or the Ohio EPA should know something about this. It’s probably fine right? I think it’s just some kind of geological event or seismic oddity. My address and phone number are enclosed in case you think this sounds serious.

Best,

Kara

KARA: Hello again Rick,

Thanks for getting back to me. I don’t hear any water, but it has grown. In fact, one morning I stumbled blearily downstairs and nearly fainted. The hole had widened, and seemingly swallowed my area rug and coffee table. The edges were perfectly smooth, as if something terribly sharp cut through the floorboards and into the earth. I froze in a panic on the stairs and spent what felt like most of the morning paralyzed, numb, staring at the hole from the dark steps. Where did it come from? Where did it lead? Should I call 911?

Eventually I got brave enough to leave the stairs and go near it. I strained to see in from a few feet away, but it was no use. I smelled for rotten eggs like you suggested, but I don’t think there’s any gas leaks. I leaned in and listened. Nothing. As I inched closer, the urge to stick my hand in was strong, but my survival instincts proved stronger.

I haven’t told anyone else about this hole, either. Who would I call? My dad? The cops? What would I say? Now that I think about it, maybe I can take care of it myself. I’ve fixed a lock and caulked a shower before, so maybe it won’t be too hard to replace some floorboards. Or maybe, if it’s some freak geological occurrence, it’ll just go away on its own, just as suddenly as it came. I’ll just be extra careful not to drop anything for the time being, and I’ll cover it up if anyone comes over. I’ll plan around it. No big. Sorry to bother you.

Thanks anyway,

Kara

KARA: At first it was a pain. I was stunned anew every morning that I came down from the bedroom to see chasm in the floor before me. My heart raced as I tip-toed around it, trying not to look down. Soon I’d forget about it for a few minutes when I was busy. I wouldn’t notice it while I was watching entire seasons of show at once, or staring at the dishes that somehow keep piling up.

But it always nagged at me, gnawing at some part of my brain, conscious or otherwise. I’d go out with friends, and they’d notice me staring into space. They’d ask what’s wrong. Nothing, I’d say. And in a sense, it was true. Holes are just an absence, a lack. When I’d lay on the couch for days without moving, it was an absence, a lacking. It was nothing. I stopped going out with friends. I’d make and break little promises to myself that I would check my email and get back to you, that I’d talk to someone about it if it wasn’t gone tomorrow. Then next week. Then if it was still around next year.

Eventually I got accustomed to its size, its edges, to the point where I could just side-step it by muscle memory. Avoiding it became an unconscious routine like anything else. I didn’t feel worried about it, and in fact didn’t feel much at all anymore. If I drank and slept enough, it was nothing.

I trudged through all this and by some miracle graduated. I got a new job and moved out of town. Yeah, I just left the hole there for the landlord to deal with. It’s not like I was getting my deposit back anyway. The presence of the new city gave me a rush. There were new places to explore, new food to try. I was getting more rest, had more fulfilling work, better hobbies. Better relationships. My new partner moved in.

But new things only stay new for so long, and bodies refuse to stay buried, so to speak. Just a small crack under the bed. Just a sliver at first. Probably shoddy flooring. I covered it with a storage tub and didn’t tell my partner. Why should they get roped into worrying about a tiny crack in the wood? It's ridiculous. My partner later found it, of course, and wanted to call the landlord. I convinced them not to. Said I’d seen something like that before, and that it's fine if we just ignore it.

The crack got bigger. Its presence festered. My partner was shaken from their sleep one morning when the bedframe slipped and fell halfway into the hole. They insisted that we call someone, but I fought back again. My partner got irritated, told me off. Said they were tired of the waiting, the excuses, the growing gulf between us. Then they went quiet, and confided that they had heard something scratching and whispering in the hole when I wasn’t home. They thought it was their imagination running wild, paranoia, or just loneliness. But not anymore. They grabbed a flashlight out of the closet and tentatively peered over the edge of the silent void. They didn’t say a word the rest of the night.

My partner moved out less than a week later.

I like to look into the hole for long stretches. I think about the scratching. I blankly drop in something just to see if it hits any sort of bottom. I want to climb in and see how far it goes. I want to see if I can survive a head-on confrontation with the dark.

When I’m sitting in my living room absently staring at my phone, in the dead drunk grey of winter, I swear I can hear something. Faint whispers from the other room, drawing me in, tempting me to slide inside. Then I hear the chatter, the dragging, and the sound of bone grating on rock.

I don’t leave the bedroom. I have to keep an eye on the hole to make sure nothing falls in...or comes out. It fills everything with nothing. I can’t move away, I can’t blink. Sometimes I think I can see a hand reach up, not more than a shadow, fingers ragged and bloody. I shakily crawl to the edge on my hands and knees and peek in, my hair dangling just past the edge. I reach in up to my elbow, feeling for something, anything. I hear the scratching again. I hear the whispers and the clawing at the walls and I feel wet, clammy flesh brush up against my arm. I recoil and pull my arm back. I don’t look into the hole for a long time.

I only dream about holes. About voices, calling from inside. Telling me that it’s not really that bad down there. It’s not hot or cold, there’s no noise, no pressure, no light. It’s nothing. There are ways to get down, they assure me. I rely more and more on alchemical liquids and arcane herbs to drown them out, modern witchcraft to forget the nothing. But these also make me slow. Vulnerable.

After a night of particularly heavy alchemy, I wake up stranded on the kitchen floor, unable to move or speak. I feel something pulling me by my ankle, and I can’t turn my head to see it. It is pulling me toward the bedroom. My body lurches across the smooth linoleum with each tug. I feel the hardwood floor below me, then it vanishes, and the hand lets go. I feel myself falling for a long, long time.

I come to in the abyss. I’m looking up at the ceiling of my bedroom from the bottom of a well. As if chained in the dark to the back of a sea cave straining to smell the ocean, it’s so distant. I remember what it was like before, and I think I want to get back there. I reach out into the void and my hands find purchase on rough stone. I grip and claw my way up, drawing closer to the light even as my hands bleed and nails break. I approach the light and see someone, the silhouette of a woman my age haloed by humming incandescent light. Her hair hangs over the opening, her arm thrust into the black. This is my chance. I reach my hand out for hers, gasping for her to pull me get out. My chilly damp skin brushes her hand and she reels her arm back. Her silhouette disappears. I don't think I can get out alone.

My phone is dying, but I’m ready to ask. I’m ready to accept it. Can you help me?

CONWAY: Per the policies of the DLO, we have looked into the whereabouts of the sender. Emails were sent to her university address, but we received no responses. We contacted the school to see if they had any updates on their alumna, but they knew nothing of consequence. The aforementioned Rick, formerly with the EPA, declined to comment on the case.

Thus the Dead Letter Office has verified that these emails, collectively called DL-13905, are undeliverable. A flash drive containing these emails will be stored in our vault, and our guys in IT are working to clear the caches or cookies or something out of the related devices.

*brief music over the radio*

CONWAY ON TAPE: All right, this entry’s gonna be a little different. For some god-forsaken reason, they got me heading out to a warehouse up in ******** to check out some package they’ve got there may need archived. Now the government's not known for its...spending habits and this is no different. Instead of my usual setup or a lav mic, they've got me with an old cassette recorder and a used tape, so I apologize for the quality of this missive. Anyway, back to that package.

Seems to be some kind of painting they found, the King of Rock and Roll, Elvis himself. The package handlers there found it torn open with no address and no return address, so they took the painting out and hung it up in their break room. Since then, a few of the handlers there swear they can hear his songs playing early in the morning, even if none of em turned on the radio. They only started hearing this after they hung up this Elvis painting. Some of the other employees have complained about the morning crew acting weird, getting defensive about it and saying odd things.

Don’t know why the hell they picked me, I’m not much of a Presley-head myself.

*click* CONWAY ON TAPE: All right we're on 71 north, should be there before too long. Looks like we are about right on time to arrive at this warehouse.

*click*

Okay, we're here in the break room. The thing's about 4 feet high, 3 wide. Painted on black velvet, maybe with some kind of acrylic, not sure. Looks pretty new, must have been made recently or else stored well. I suppose it looks enough like the king. He's all in white, microphone clasped between his hands in front of his chest. Hair's dark, hanging a little bit wilted under the crown. Not his usual pompadour. Does have the sideburns, all right. He's looking up and into a light. There's a tear rolling down his cheek.

Now below this painting, there's a small table. Seems like uh some kind of light--maybe plywood--covered in veneer. Situated on top of the table are a few candles. Looks almost like a votive. Small rug situated in front. Looks like...almost looks like a uh...well nevermind what it looks like, let's check the back of the frame here.

All right, there is some text here, written in the same paint used to paint the Elvis. It reads as follows:

“THE KING ISN’T DEAD, HE’S IN THIS PAINTING. HE WAS TIRED OF THE FAME AND WANTED OUT, SO HE FAKED HIS DEATH AND USED THE ELECTRICITY ON THE AIRWAVES TO TRANSFER HIS ENERGY INTO THE VELVET."

Yeah, all right then. No names, no addresses. Well, suppose the only other thing to do here is listen and see if we hear any Elvis.

*Hound Dog by Big Mama Thornton plays faintly in the background*

CONWAY: Well I don't hear much of anything. Hey, Benny, was it? Yeah, do you hear it now? Any of y'all back there hear it?

All right, well somebody hears something, but I'm not hearing any rock and or roll, so uh. Jeez...I don’t know. I guess we'll take it to the DLO, have some people also give this painting a listen and review the tape later At least if I take it, we’ll stop getting complaints from this particular office's management. Well, for this parcel, this is Conway, for the moment, signing off.

*Distorted music on the radio*

CONWAY: The tape has been reviewed, and we have assigned this parcel the code DO-06206. We have determined, given the lack of information and the findings on the tape, that this package is indeed undeliverable. It will be stored safely, and quietly, in our break room.

For the Dead Letter Office of ******* Ohio, this is Conway, signing off.

DLO 2: SECRET INGREDIENT/SECRET ADMIRER

4 januari 2021 | 15 min

Conway archives two more odd letters this week. A struggling chef encounters a new customer with unusual tastes. A secret admirer reveals his game.

Don't forget to subscribe if you like the show!

(CWs: blood, food, stalking, implied death)

TRANSCRIPT:

Dead letter 12603 was found in a vacant building before demolition on July 22nd, 2011. It was addressed to the ****** Police Department, but was not postmarked or sent. There was no return address. It was forwarded to our office for verification and processing. The letter has been subsequently opened and read per the state’s revised code. The letter reads as follows:

NARRATOR: I’m not sure if what I’ve done--and what I’m about to do--is technically a crime. A sin, sure, one of the gravest, depending on your outlook. But you don’t deal with sinners, do you. This is a confession, regardless; I’ll leave it to you whether it’s religious or criminal. Let me start at the beginning.

I’ve been in this neighborhood for over three decades. I built this place, and I’ve stuck it out through fires and floods and all kinds of hardships. I’ve seen this place rise and fall and get back up again. But things are different now. I used to know a lot of the people coming in. I could ask them about their kids or job or whatever. Even if the place wasn’t packed, it could stand on its own. But the old faces just don’t come here much anymore, and the new ones are not the same. It’s all young people in their jumpers and track pants and fancy watches with no numbers. They spend more, but their tips leave a little something to be desired.

The old businesses have vanished along with the old faces. The Fledermouse is gone, now it’s just a store for lampshades. Not lamps, mind you, just the shades. And across the street they’re done building some fancy studio apartments. Used to be a real workin man’s neighborhood, lotta immigrants, real good folk. Now it’s a sanctioned “arts district,” and with that comes “arts district” rent. This city’s too chickenshit for any kind of rent control, so I’m looking at shuttering my business and moving out within the year if things don’t pick up.

Well one night we’re unexpectedly swamped, and I hear some chatter about a food writer for some internet website being here. Always looking for new experiences and all that. So I’m in the back sweating up a storm, trying to get these orders out to the good people. I’m dicing up chives for the garnish and I slip a little. No time for errors if I want to keep this place alive. I keep my head down, toss on the chives, and slide the bowl down the line to be taken out to the table. I take a breath, lean back against the counter, and wipe the sweat off my forehead with my greasy apron. Then I can feel my finger pulsing when I press it against my face.

And that’s when I see it. The fresh, dark red on the apron, dripping from my finger. When I was chopping, I must have nicked it. I go to pick up a dry towel next to the cutting board, when I see it again. Those same red globs on the chives, on the knife. Holding the towel over my finger, I rush to the kitchen door and crane my neck, straining to see out the window. The guy’s lifting the spoon to his mouth and sipping it just as I peer out.

Well, that’s it for me, I figure. I had a good run, time to pack it in and close shop. I take a seat and bandage my finger, thinking about the old times here.

I’m stirred from my thoughts by one of the servers, she says the food guy called her “garcon” and says he wants to meet whoever was responsible for the soup. Well, time to face the music, folks. I slip my damp hat off, run a hand through my thinning hair, and amble to his table. I don’t hear much of what he’s saying, I’m looking past him and thinking about the fat fine the city’s gonna stick me with. That is until he holds out his hand for a shake. He says something about a genius reinvention or deconstruction or whatever. Says it was unlike any soup he’s ever had. I’m speechless for a minute, half-tempted to fess up right then and there. Instead, my self-preservation instinct kicks and I zip my fat lip and shake his hand. He says he feels reinvigorated and will be back next week for the same dish.

So next week rolls around and here he is, Mr. Food Blog himself, asking for the soup, exactly as before. I put in the same ingredients, prepared the same way (minus the finger incident of course) and send it out. Not two minutes later, he sends it back. He sends back my soup! Says it’s not the same as the first time, it’s boring, it's missing something. The only difference this time was...well I look around the kitchen for anything bloody I can squeeze into this soup, but nothing turns up.

Now, the first time was an accident. I don’t think that’s a crime, at least not one an attorney would waste their time on. Can’t imagine God getting too upset about a thing like that either. Here’s where it should have ended: he sends the soup back and I let the guy leave disappointed. But this was my business, my life, we’re talking about, on the brink of drowning, and here was a life jacket floating right by. How could I not grab it?

Yeah, this second time, I knew what I was doing. Motive makes a difference, don't it? So it was my poor finger’s time to shine again.

He loves it. Be back next week. With friends.

Next time I’m prepared. It’s pretty easy to get your hands on some livestock blood. I can keep it in the kitchen without too much suspicion from the line cooks.

Around dinner time the following week, he comes in, flanked by a few guys in nice shirts and sneakers and two girls with big hats. He orders the soup. Exactly the same as before, he says. For all of them.

I finish preparing the soup and sneak a few drips of cow’s blood into each bowl. It's not too different from lard or meat, right? I don’t see any harm in it. I send out the bowls and await the praise. But instead, I’m met with 6 bowls of soup, sent back. “Exactly as it was before,” the guy scowled at my waitress, pointing to the bowl.

I can already see where this is going: he doesn’t just want any old blood, he wants my blood.

Well, what’s running a restaurant if not putting your blood, sweat, and tears into every dish? What’s a little blood if it means I can pay the hiked rent? The problem is, for six bowls, a little finger nick isn’t going to do it. I clear out the kitchen, under the pretenses I’m still upset about the food being sent back and need a minute. Next thing I know, knife meets palm and the customers are raving. Better than ever, he says, a total rejuvenation.

The weeks pass by as more and more of my new neighbors stop by for the famed soup and the old customers slip away entirely. More and more bandages show up on my hands, arms. My employees think I’m getting slow, shaky, with my age. But I’m sharper than ever, and business is booming.

It all goes real smoothlike for months. I get some nicer ingredients, tweak the presentation, the whole shebang. None of it seems to make a difference to these people besides how much of uh myself I put in the dish. The more I lose, the more they pay. Sure I get woozy, need a break. Yeah, I’m looking a little pale these days, feel a little weaker. But if it means keeping this place open, keeping some small part of the old days intact, I’ll deal with it. The plan's working.

Until last week, that is. Rent’s up again. They’re tryin to push me out for a high-tech gym, or some artisanal dog food joint or something. “Arts district” my ass, it’s just a shopping mall now. On top of this, Mr. Food Website is bored of my stuff. Says it’s stale, wants to move on to other places and take his crowd with him. Says the place could use shaking up. Something big, something truly impressive, truly enlivening.

So now you know what I’ve done. I’m guilty, absolutely. Guilty of caring, of passion, of doing what it took to stay afloat. If that’s a crime, I’ll gladly face my punishment.

He’s coming back tonight, though, the same day I’m writing this letter. If he doesn’t like the dish, he’s leaving and taking all my business with him. If this isn’t the best thing he’s ever, ever tasted, I’m shit out of luck. I’m done, gone. Demolished and forgotten after 30 years.

So this time, I’m leaving nothing behind. Oh, it’ll be big all right. A real shakeup, a total showstopper. I’m putting my everything into this last supper. I’m leaving all of myself on the table, roasted and served on a silver platter.

CONWAY: There were no names or addresses provided, and research into similar events in the area have come up inconclusive. The DLO has thus ruled this letter deliverable. One of our carriers will deliver a lightly redacted copy to the correct address, and the original letter will be stored in our vault.

Dead Letter 07104, found cramped and crumbled at the bottom of a filing cabinet at the *****, Ohio police department. It had been opened and read previously, and one of our carriers intercepted it at the way to the dump. The letter reads as follows.

SECRET ADMIRER: You were not supposed to see me. We were never meant to meet. You were not supposed to see me, but oh I saw you. I saw so much of you. Alone in the cafe, reading rejection letters from various institutions. You were a meandering, flat person, nothing special inside or out. I saw you in the cafe, and that’s when you invited me into your dull little life, Daniel. All you could have seen was a man in reflective shades and a scarf. It’s a stroke of luck that you did not see behind the shades, nor under the scarf. An unfortunate number of my previous clients have done so and I deeply regret it. I am here to help, after all. Do you remember me there, Daniel? My entire appearance is tailored to ensure that you do not. I trailed you from that cafe. I took countless photos and copious notes as I followed your every move for months. I saw you in your home, at your job, in your car.

To any outside observer, your life must have appeared interesting, very interesting indeed, from that point on. Yes, to any outside observer, you were quite interesting. Not because of who you were, or what you did while you were followed, but simply because you were followed.

You were made noteworthy by this very act of following. You see, I believe that in order to be complete, every person must have at least one secret for themselves. And what better way to keep a secret than by not knowing you even have one? To any outside observer, your secret made you fascinating, thrust you from your flat world into three dimensions. Oh, life has dimensions beyond what you could possibly know, and I had only begun to show you.

Does it matter that there was no film in my camera, that my notes were unrelated sketches? Does it matter that I will leave no record, and forget you as soon as you leave my sight? I should think not. You have a secret now, Daniel, a kernel of mystery forever in your life. No longer a mannequin, you are now fully rendered.

No, I’m not with any government or business, I’m what you might call a free agent. A purveyor of mysteries, an admirer of secrets, if you will. But then you saw me, and foul suspicions formed in your mind. Now I shall take my leave. Before I go, you must admit: I have irrevocably changed your entire life by simply following you. Do not bother with authorities, I'm already long gone. And besides, why would you tell them? Secrets are powerful, Daniel. Remember to keep them when you can.

Sincerely,

A Secret Admirer

CONWAY: This letter appears to have had quite the history. It was initially mailed and delivered to a Daniel ****, and from there was apparently forwarded along with additional information to the **** police department. What happened to it once it arrived at the police department, we have no way of knowing. But it seems it has not seen the light of day in a number of years.

We here at the DLO deem this noteworthy enough to store in our vault. For Dead Letters 12603 and 07104, this is Conway with the Dead Letter Office of **** Ohio, signing off.

DLO 1: BAD NEIGHBOR/RE:FURBISH

23 december 2020 | 15 min

Conway archives two strange letters this week: one involves a bad neighbor, and the other relates a short story about a fad toy from the '90s.

Don't forget to subscribe if you like the show!

TRANSCRIPT:

CONWAY: This is Conway, receiving clerk for the Dead Letter Office of ***** Ohio, processing the national dead mail backlog. We here at the DLO are no strangers to odd parcels and unusual letters, and these two here are certainly unusual. The following audio recording will serve as an internal memo strictly for archival purposes and should be considered confidential. Need I remind anyone: public release of this or any confidential material from the DLO is a felony. Some names and places have been censored for the protection of the public.

Dead letter 11501, postmarked October 19, 2009, was flagged by a carrier and sent to the Dead Letter Office for verification and processing. The letter has been subsequently opened and read per the state’s revised code. The letter reads as follows:

WILLIAM, NARRATOR:

Dear Terry at ***** realty,

We’re a small college town, so there will be parties. I grew up here, I get it, I’ve lived it myself. Sometimes the people living above you are loud, and obnoxious. Not much to be done about that. But for the tenant above me, it seems that every night is a blowout. Most lights on our block go dim a few hours after sunset, of course other than the orange halos of the street lights and blue streams of tvs filtering through blinds. One night I’m watching reruns of Frasier or Jeopardy or whatever, the windows open to let the cool fall air in. But I can’t hear a damn thing over the commotion upstairs.

Pounding music seeps through the ceiling like a burst pipe. I’d almost rather have a water leak, because maybe you’d do something about it for once. I try earplugs, I try the pillow over the head, I try it all. Eventually sunlight starts to creep through the window. And when the sun does come up, the music just stops. And then I have to go to work exhausted and frustrated.

One brisk evening, as splashes of red sunset coat our building, I slip a small note under his door. Something like “Please keep it down after 10 p.m. Some of us do work early!” Problem solved, I hope. But as the last rays of daylight fade and my grilled cheese is fully melted, the damn music starts again. Some kind of dance music, uncomfortably loud, constantly thrumming like a wicked heartbeat.

That night, I’m looking up at the ceiling, just seething over this guy. It’s past 12, and the music still bleats, a single voice interwoven throughout. So I get up, march out to the hallway, and stomp up the narrow stairs. I knock heavily on his door in three quick successions. The door opens just a crack, as bright multicolored light and hammering drums buzz through the frame.

“Hey, my dude, what is the deal?” is all he has to say for himself. I’m squinting against the harsh lighting now as my eyes struggle to adjust. He looks like he’s in his late-thirties, a bit haggard. Wearing neon shutter shades and a few days of stubble.

“Did you get my note?”

“What?” he leans in to hear me over the commotion.

I clear my throat and ask again, louder this time, about the note. I don’t want a fight, I just want to sleep.

“Note? No, my dude, there are no notes here,” he laughs to himself, but his voice is shaky. Eventually my eyes get used to the tacky backlight, and I can see a bit between the slats of his glasses. His eyes are huge, bloodshot, always moving. My gaze trails to the wrinkles creasing around the corners of his mouth and eyes. Scruffy, uneven hair held in place by a faded headband, slick with sweat and grease. The tip of a worn vape pen sticks out of the pocket of his baby blue polo shirt. And the man doesn’t blink. He doesn’t blink the entire conversation.

“Well, could you keep it down at night? At least weeknights? I have to work and--

“No can do, my dude. ‘Party all day to keep the darkness away,’ know what I mean? Keep it from clawing its way inside,” I can’t tell if he’s joking or sick, but his red, staring eyes keep darting behind me to the shadowed stairwell.

“Okay, well you can do whatever makes you happy during the day, that’s not the problem. It’s the nights that I take issue with.” I look past him and into his apartment, trying to make out any shapes in the room. I see a lot of lights, but no other people. If this was a party, it was a pretty bleak one.

“This ain’t just for me bruh, gotta keep rockin’ all night to keep the dark--” he starts, or something to that effect, as he wipes moisture from his upper lip and chin. It’s chilly in the building, but he’s still glistening with beads of prickling sweat. I tell him I don’t have time for this, and that if he doesn’t knock it off, I’m calling the landlord.

He says something about he's been here a while and no one's complained, but I turn as he trails off. I rub my temples, and go back downstairs to write you an email.

I usually work in the morning, but that day a co-worker had gotten sick and I needed to cover her class. I didn’t finish grading until well into the night and then stopped for dinner. So when I got home around 11:30, of course the one-man-party upstairs was still going strong. On my way in, I passed by our outdoor breaker box and an idea crossed my mind. It may not have been my proudest moment, but I was at my limit. I popped open the breaker cover and switched off the upstairs power. The light from his room disappeared, and the music finally, thankfully, ceased. All was quiet in our building, all dark.

I went inside and sat on the edge of my bed, relishing the silence and, admittedly, hoping to hear at least a grumble or complaint after what he'd put me through. I assumed he’d figure it out eventually and check the breaker. If he’s got that much lighting and music and who knows what else going all the time, it was bound to trip someday.

But instead I heard a wailing. A despairing, guttural sound coming from upstairs. I could only make out a few words between the shrieks, some terrified gibberings about the light going out and the dark going in, going to him. It dawned on me that there could be some kind of medical equipment in there, some life support or insulin in the fridge, and I sure as hell wasn’t about to be responsible for accidentally killing an aging frat bro by shutting it down.

I was slipping on my shoes when I heard a heavy thud from above, which seemed to end the raving, then a long, drawn out scratching along the floor, like the sound of dragging heavy furniture across hardwood.

I’ll admit that gave me pause. But I left my apartment and stepped warily up the narrow stairs, straining to hear more. There were marks across the concrete floor and up the wooden stairs below my feet--long slashes and scuffs leading from his room, down the stairwell, and toward the vacant apartment below. You may want to check out the floor in his room, too. This is no fault of my own, so you don’t take it out of my deposit.

His door was still partially open, and I could see a faint green glow from beyond the frame. I snuck closer, following the marks and peering in through the gap in the doorway. It was a complete mess. Hundreds of melted candles littered the room, dripping wax frozen in strands and pools on the tables, rugs, even right onto the twenty-or-so lighters and countless burned matches scattered around the floor.

Towers of cassette tapes and CDs leaned precariously in the corner, while boomboxes and speakers were nested in coiled extension cords and power strips snaking along the ground. Tall, thin halogen lamps were plugged in at nearly every outlet and aimed at the center of the room, casting eerie shadows along the floor. They were off, but I could still feel the heat radiating from the bulbs. It was hot, stifling, even on this chilly evening. Strings of unlit Christmas lights webbed across the walls in meandering patterns like reaching ivy. Old portable televisions faintly hissed with static from the empty bedroom.

I had started to regret flipping that breaker, but I needed to convince myself he was unharmed. So I inched my way farther in.

The stench of sweaty shirts overflowing from laundry baskets and the smell of overheated electronics filled the muggy room. Whoever this person was, he seemed desperate to avoid any silence, any ounce of darkness.

I trailed the gashes in the floor to the source of the green light: in the bathroom, a huge pile of bent old glow sticks--several hundred at least--filled the bathtub to the brim. Their glow had mostly run out, but a dim sick-green pall still clung to the basin from the few that remained active. The marks ended here, next to the tub. Or maybe they began here. Either way, the man was gone, the only trace of him left in the sty he lived in being a crumpled note by the tub. Finding no medical instruments or any evidence of injury, I left, closing his door on my way out. I was tired, confused, but overjoyed that it was finally quiet, so I went to bed.

That was two days ago, and of course a new problem has arisen: something reeks in the building, probably some food the man left behind in his fridge that’s gone rancid. And there’s the occasional scratching sound downstairs. It is vacant down there, right? You told me on the phone when I moved in not to worry about the basement apartment since nobody lived there. Perhaps some raccoons took up residence. Regardless, they are also not my problem, and the noises downstairs are getting louder. I tried sending you another email about all this, but it bounced back, saying the address was invalid. I know the rent is cheap so I shouldn’t complain, but you really ought to update the email address you give to tenants. I’ve been advised that I should hold my rent in escrow until the odor problem is sorted. I do have some rights, you know. Squatters rights and all that.

Now I’m writing all this out by hand, along with the contents of the first email and the man’s note, while fruitlessly trying to ignore the scratching outside my door.

Yours,

William

CONWAY: Per the policies of the DLO, we have looked into the recipient’s address. The realty company was bought out around this time by the Greenwoods and shuttered its old office. We could find no current address for the sender, and the address it was sent from now appears vacant.

The Dead Letter Office has verified this letter, DL-11501, as undeliverable, and the letter, along with this note, will be safely archived in our vault.

****

CONWAY: Dead letter 08602, postmarked December 29th 1999, was flagged by a carrier and sent to the Dead Letters Office for verification and processing. The letter reads as follows:

NARRATOR: To Hasbr**

You have to take this toy back. K-Mart will not let us return it on account of it’s been opened and is “technically functional”. Our kids have been goin nuts for this Furby thing, seen it all over the commercials, and we waited in line for hours just to get one.

First thing when we got it home, the dog growls at it and hid under our bed. Then the thing would not stop talking, just jib-jabbering that fake furby words all night. Speaking of Furby, this thing don’t got fur, it’s got hair, and lots of it. The kids told me it learned some swears, bad ones, too, so I took the batteries out, you know to reset it, hoping it would resolve itself. I got some new double-As in it, but it just stood there blinking and moving its little beak nonstop with no talking at all. We set there for a minute, just to see what would happen. The kids asked me if I heard what it was saying, but I didn’t hear nothin other than the little parts inside whirring about.

I popped the batteries out and put the hairy thing in the closet, thinking that would settle it. But wouldn't you know it, next day my wife swore she found it on the windowsill, looking out the window at the poor dog. My youngest says it sneaks out sometimes, says it sways back and forth sings to him in that made-up language. Older one told me it sat on top of him in his sleep and wouldn’t let him move for hours. Said it stared him in the eye and whispered things only god should know.

Well, sir, whether I believe all that or not my kids had certainly had enough so I took it to K-mart, they said they won’t take it back as long as it works and I don’t got the receipt. So here it is. I’m not fishing for a refund, not fishing for a lawsuit or nothing, I just want it gone. Send it to the dump, send it to the FBI--hell, send it straight to hell for all I care, I just want it to stop scarin’ my sons.

CONWAY: The letter was found stuffed in an old PO box years after its postmark, and was subsequently sent to the nearest of the three remaining Dead Letters Offices, which would be ours The accompanying package could not be found. Per the ORC, the Dead Letters Office has verified this mail, DL-08602, as unfit for delivery and the letter will be securely stored in our vault.

For the Dead Letters Office of ***** Ohio, this is Conway, signing off.

00:00 -00:00