Episode 1.01: Old Flame

NICHOLAS: (as the intro plays) At the edge of Gilt City, electric lights give way to many colored fires, and all await the arrival of the Night Post. [A WALL CLOCK TICKS. A PEN SCRATCHES ACROSS PAPER.] NICHOLAS: It’s not like you to head out after sunset. Don’t want to get too much of a late start. CLEMENTINE: I know. I’m finishing up this note, and then I’ll head out. NICHOLAS: Very good. Delivery by dawn, that’s our guarantee. [NICHOLAS’ FOOTSTEPS ON THE WOODEN FLOOR AS HE LEAVES.] VAL: You can’t let him give you grief. All this time alone in the office has ruined him socially. CLEMENTINE: No, he’s right. I don’t want to rush my route. VAL: Suit yourself, but you shouldn’t let him boss you around. CLEMENTINE: Well, he is literally our boss. Isn’t the work enough of a challenge without being at odds with everyone around you? VAL: Aw, Clem, I hope you don’t think we’re at odds. And Nicholas and I, I thought that was just healthy workplace banter. Alright, I can tell when I’ve worn my welcome thin. [A DOOR CLOSES. CLEMENTINE’S WRITING RESUMES.] CLEMENTINE: (reading) Dear Magpie, I don’t intend to send this letter. I can write freely knowing you’ll probably never read it, but I can’t be sure. Correspondence works in unusual ways, and I wouldn’t be surprised if someday these notes found their way to you. For now I’ve been keeping them tucked into my desk at the office or shoved between the seat and the console of my truck. These letters aren’t for you, they’re for me. But, I do miss you. I imagine you in your Gilt City apartment and I hope you’re happy. Do you ever think of the old saying: “there’s an I in Gilt, but no you”? Most days, I don’t blame you for leaving. You must prefer a cramped set of rooms to the dusty house full of papers that my father left me. I inherited a lot from my Dad, and I’m still learning how to carry it all. The job at the Night Post, for one. I knew what he did for work, but I don’t think I understood it until I took over his route for myself. It isn’t coveted work, delivering letters, and most folks assumed my dad carried more than the mail. Old superstitions run deep around these parts. People want to give you space if they believe you’re touched by something ancient, powerful--something they don’t understand. I don’t think my dad was cursed, even after a lifetime at the Post. The only thing he was haunted by was my mother. While he drank his decaf coffee at the kitchen table, he would write letters to her as if he had some way to deliver them. When I was young, he would ask if I had anything to say to her--a woman I never met who my dad hated to speak about, but I liked to play along. I would tell him to write to her and ask how the weather was, or simply to send my love. When I got older, I resented all the time he wasted writing to a dead woman. As a teenager, I tossed an entire armful of letters into the stove because I thought it would make him angry, but instead it made him cry, and I regretted it. Can’t tell you why it upset him so much. If there was some magic in those letters, I don’t understand it, but I never could bring myself to toss those old papers. Now, I know the need to communicate with someone even if the lines are severed, and there's no way to get through. It’s something I’m familiar with. I know, I’m not doing a good job of explaining myself. Guess it shouldn’t matter, but I think it does. I should’ve tried harder when we were still together to talk about some of these things. And now, I don’t have a choice but to write about them, and seal them away. When you wanted to go on my route with me, I should have let you. It’s only that delivering letters is more dangerous than you think. But a route can get lonely, even if they are designed to be walked alone, and maybe you would have understood better why I was hesitant to talk about my night when I came to bed in the mornings. You would think that I would understand better, the frustration of being kept in the dark. When I was young, I was enchanted by the mystery of my Dad’s work. It only made sense. Everyone whispered about him, and he didn’t want to talk about it except in vagaries. He would sigh as he stirred cream into his coffee, while I begged him for stories about his night and orange dawn bathed us in light. He would tell me...he got caught in a thunderstorm, or he saw a fox skitter across a dirt drive, but never anything truly interesting. Nothing that would have prepared me for taking his place. I know you thought I was being withholding when I refused to recount stories of whispering pages or spectral hounds, but I believed as my father did that the distance would keep you safer. Isn’t it better to be bored and curious? I can’t decide if I was wrong, but maybe writing to you now is an admission that if I’d done better, been a bit braver, things between us could’ve been different. Is that wishful thinking? My route is not all bad. It was honest enough to describe the stars on a breathless clear night, or to steal flowers from amenable gardens to bring home to you. There is charm and romance amid the Skelter, if you know where to look. Against the stories you’ve heard, I imagine any rose-gilted words would seem like...misinformation. Lies. But my lies were only sweet-tongued lover’s lies. I didn’t think that they would do any harm. I should’ve made you promise that you would call. I’d walk down to the phone booth just to hear your voice. It’d be better than writing letters I’d never send. I spend so much time delivering messages. It can make me realize how quiet, how lonely my life is. Things have changed since you’ve left, and I wonder if I’ve changed too. Probably not enough to make a difference. It’s a good thing you’ll never read this, because I know all of these vagaries would drive you crazy. It’s...difficult to address things head-on, especially when they’re painful, and even harder to speak out loud. I’m grateful for the way letters can capture words and seal them away. [SOLEMN SYNTH TONES SWELL IN THE BACKGROUND.] The house is gone. It burned down. I walked home from the office one morning and found it smoldering, my dead father’s love letters to my dead mother fluttering in the cruel morning breeze. If the neighbors saw, they pretended not to see. It wasn’t out of cruelty. People are afraid of carriers of the Post. Respect and fear lock their fingers. I’m sure it didn’t pass your notice when we were together. If I had been there and had been able to ask for help, I doubt I would’ve been rejected. But after everything else, the house didn’t seem like that much of a loss. It was only a skeleton, and you’d be surprised how comfortable sleeping in one of the vans can be. It’s not very, but I thought you might like to imagine that it’s cozy--that there might be a soft pallet of blankets, a lantern that could cast dreamy shadows, and enough space to store the few things that are mine. There...isn’t. There's not even enough room for me to stretch my legs out. I sleep with my knees pressed to my chest, curled up like a scared child, and dream of burning papers. I don’t know what started the fire. If it was malicious or meant to be some kind of a sign, I’m not sure of what. And who would have a message like that to send to me? It’s a mystery, and I’m not necessarily looking for the answers. What would knowing help anyway? I’m glad you were gone--well, that you weren’t hurt, and that none of your things were destroyed. It was only my loss to bear. It’s my father’s van. I try not to read much into driving around the same scrap of machinery that my father did for years before he passed the job to me. Working for the Post isn’t a desirable job, at least for most. And recruiting would be a nightmare if they hadn’t stopped recruiting. You always thought my decision to follow in my father’s footsteps was strange, but it wasn’t my decision. There was a baby photo of me tucked into the sunshade, and I wonder if that’s how he saw me still. Did my father sign my life away when I was still that young? He didn’t have anyone else in his life to name as his successor, and I try not to blame him. The operations of the Post can be convoluted, secretive, and it’s possible he was deceived. Why would someone doom their loved ones to such a dangerous position? Will there be...consequences when I don’t have anyone to name? I wouldn’t have enlisted you in this strange life, if you’re wondering. The van isn’t haunted, but some nights I imagine it might be, especially if it's cold. If my father haunted his mail van, I think I would be angry with him. Wherever he is now, I would hope that he would take some time off, now that I’m doing the work for him. It would have been nice to have some advice from him before he died, something that might have made learning the job easier, but I doubt that I’ll get any guidance now. I know how it must sound, that I would conjure a ghost so I wouldn’t have to spend the nights in the truck alone. Maybe, it’s even dangerous--allowing the idea of something to take root could invite something more sinister in. You always thought I was silly for putting stock in superstition, in the unexplained ways the Skelter works. (short sigh) If you heard the wind move through the bones of the truck at night, parked by the silent, ashen remains of your childhood home, wouldn’t you feel haunted, too? Do you prefer it in the city? It’s supposed to be safer there, away from the strangeness of the Skelter, and it’s easier to enjoy the amenities of technology without having to worry about replacing them constantly, or powering them this far out. It must suit you better. If only I could have gone with you. I don’t know what would happen if I tried to leave the Post, but I could’ve requested a transfer and gone with you. It’s not what you wanted. Is the city far enough away from me? If someone else is taking my place, slipping into the cracks I created, and spending the night wrapped in your arms, I suppose I should be happy for you both, but I need more time. I’ll keep writing to you, because I have no one else to write to, and I hope that these letters stay stashed away where they can’t do any harm. It’s easier to write to the fragments of you instead of the real you, the one that’s living and changing, somewhere in that sparkling city on the horizon. I hope my father was onto something, and there is some power in unsent letters. I’m not exactly sure what I hope these letters will do, but it helps to write. It helps to hold my memories of you a while longer, and I want to try and tell you all the things I wasn’t able to. That’s enough for now. I’m wishing you luck and safety, even though you shouldn’t need it in the big city, and my love lingers with you through all of the time and distance between us. Sincerely yours, Clementine. [CLEMENTINE FINISHES WRITING AND FOLDS UP THE LETTER] [THE CLOCK TICKS ON, AND THE OFFICE DOOR OPENS] CLEMENTINE: Oh, hey, Val. Didn’t realize you’d still be here. VAL: You’re late. Rough night? CLEMENTINE: It was fine. It doesn’t bother you that you’re always late. VAL: You’re right, it doesn’t. Ashley hasn’t made it back from his route yet either. Surprised me, is all. You’re both so-- CLEMENTINE: So...what? VAL: Desperate for Daddy’s approval, as if Nick’s got a special roll of stamps for the best pigeon at the office. CLEMENTINE: It’s not like that. VAL: Then what’s it like? CLEMENTINE: Hold on. Ashley's cart is full. Has he been here at all tonight? VAL: Who knows. It's not like he'd tell us if he planned to take off. CLEMENTINE: I hope he's okay. VAL: You do that. I'm sure hope will keep him safe. NICHOLAS: (as the outro plays) Thank you for joining us on tonight's route. You can reach the couriers of Station 103 at nightpostpod@gmail.com or on Twitter @nightpostpod. If you're satisfied with your postal service, please rate and review us. Send a letter to your dearest friend, and tell them about The Night Post.

Episode 1.01: Old Flame

Written by Elizabeth R. C. Lundberg

Produced by Rae Lundberg

Content Warnings (Click to expand)