Episode 1.04: So Below
Written & Produced by Rae Lundberg
Content Warnings (Click to expand)
Death/dead bodies, loud noises, being followed, being watched
NICHOLAS: (as the intro plays) At the edge of Gilt City, sleepers lie beneath the ground for their names to be chanted, and all await the arrival of the Night Post. NICHOLAS: Valencia, if you would wait a moment? VAL: The full name. Am I in trouble? NICHOLAS: This just came in. Special delivery. I need you to take it. VAL: Mourning Road. That’s way out there. And it’s not on my haunt. NICHOLAS: It’s close enough. And Clementine and Milo have already left for their shifts, on time. This is all yours. VAL: No return address, of course. Heavier than it looks. What’s in here? NICHOLAS: Do you think I have the ability to see through boxes? VAL: Do you? I guess I can always open it up and find out. NICHOLAS: (sigh) Please don’t make me write you up again. VAL: Another write-up would only add to my air of mystery. NICHOLAS: Just go. You’re burning moonlight. VAL: You got it, chief. [THE OFFICE DOOR CLOSES, AND THE NIGHT SOUNDS OF INSECTS SWELL.] VAL: For a long night, I need a juicy letter. This one looks nice and plump. [VAL TEARS OPEN THE ENVELOPE AND UNFOLDS THE LETTER.] VAL: (reading) From Tobias Renfree. To Whom It May Concern: I’m not sure who needs to see this. The city planner? Head of transportation? Either way, someone needs to know about this. Everyone knows the public transport in Gilt City is a mess, to say the least. The infrastructure becomes more and more out of date the further you get from Gilt Tower and the city center. The tangled web of trolleys, bus lines, and subway tunnels is so convoluted, so confoundingly illogical, that I have to wonder if it was designed for some reason other than efficient movement around the city. Efficient, it is not. But as a city official, hopefully a high-ranking one who oversees this labyrinthine system, you already know that. And this isn’t just some cathartic letter to a faceless bureaucrat to complain about my commute. Not to say I’ve never sent one of those, but I’ve lived in Gilt City my whole life, and I’ve grown accustomed to the way things work here. If the transport system is secretly a corporate-backed plot to make travelers see more ads over a long commute, or a government psychological study on humans trapped in a maze, I don’t really care. It’s my routine, and I accept it. My routine was interrupted the night I stayed late at a friend’s house for dinner. Normally, I would take a bus, usually the 315 or the 480, depending on where I am, to the green trolley near Ender Park. That night, I missed the last bus at 8:45, so I had to take the subway from Nile Street Station. The car was empty when I got on, but that didn’t surprise me much. Many residents, including myself, prefer to avoid the subway when possible. It’s usually no faster than any other route, and being jolted around like pins in a metal box isn’t very pleasant. I remember wondering that night, as I shifted on my rickety plastic seat and leaned against a grimy window, just how old the rusted-out train was. [BELOW THE NARRATION, THE INTERIOR SOUNDS OF A SUBWAY CAR GRADUALLY GAINING SPEED.] I was tired and ready to be home, and I barely noticed as we rattled through the stations: Yeiser Court, Folsom Street, Aberdeen. Still, I know for a fact that I got off at the fourth stop. As we pulled away from Aberdeen, the tinny speakers overhead had said, “Next stop, Ender Park.” The doors had squealed closed and the train had begun clanking its way into the darkness before I realized that this was not Ender Park. There was no station name on the wall across from the platform, no boards or placards announcing arrival times. There were only a few dim, buzzing bulbs overhead, and a row of benches, on the verge of collapse. It was disconcerting, but I knew I couldn’t have missed my stop by more than one, so I decided to head to street level and walk the rest of the way. I walked up and down the platform three times before I was forced to admit that there was no way up to street level. The only staircase pointed sharply downward, into even darker depths. I didn’t know when or even if another train would arrive at this strange station, and I didn’t want to wait alone in the gloom on one of those sagging benches, so I gripped the handrail and headed down. Maybe I was letting my imagination run away with me, and I’d soon find that the stairs led to a way up, but there was no telling until I got to the bottom. Lucky for me, I keep a flashlight on my keyring. The little penlight wasn’t much to explore an underground tunnel by, but it was enough to keep me from tripping over my own feet. Even so, I nearly fell at the bottom where the stairs became a tumble of broken stone. Just beyond, twin strips of steel glinted in the little glow from my hand and passed into the darkness on either side of me. Rail tracks. When I shined my light on the nearby wall, the letters I could make out spelled “Perender.” Was that the name of this station? The further I passed into it, picking my way over the tracks and the crumbling remains of the platform, the surer I became that this was a subway station, buried beneath the first. After I crossed a line of rusted gates that may have been turnstiles, the cavern widened to house at least a dozen little structures, what looked like booths and shop fronts. Almost everything had been gutted by disaster or time, but the skeleton of the place remained. It reminded me of the station at Nile Street that I’d left not an hour before, where travelers can buy a newspaper or a hot meal at almost any hour of the day, at one of the walk-up windows lining the passage up to the street. There were signs all around declaring what I took to be prices, numbers with a squiggly symbol beside them. I could read the words, but most of them didn’t make sense. Something called “bread galvanish” cost twenty squiggles. A “kingsy pick” cost thirty-five, and “crillies” were three for fifty. It was all so mysterious and foreign that I could have spent hours exploring the booths and the dust-draped debris inside, but something urged me on--that disquieting sensation, like a cold hand at the back of my neck, of being watched. [STEADY FOOTSTEPS ON CONCRETE REVERBERATE IN A LARGE ROOM. SOON, A SECOND PAIR OF FEET JOINS THEM, ALMOST BUT NOT QUITE IN SYNC.] As I walked on, my little cone of light revealing more ancient stalls, my footsteps echoed weirdly off the high walls. Each time my feet struck the flagstones, the sound came back to me quieter, then twice more, loud and distorted. A step, a tiptoe, and two echoes. I became convinced that someone else was down there with me, matching their steps almost perfectly to mine, so that I couldn’t hear their pursuit. Nothing showed itself when I swung my flashlight all around, and I tried to convince myself that it was just paranoia making me hear things. But the strange echoes continued, and I was determined to prove them either natural or unnatural. I walked erratically, heavy steps and light, stopping and starting suddenly until my shadow made a mistake. I heard it move, undoubtedly. It kept moving, shuffling through the blackness beyond my light, until I realized it wasn’t pursuing me at all. It was leading. [UNEVEN STEPS, MORE LIKE SCRAPING AGAINST THE CONCRETE, RING OUT.] Knowing this eased my fear, for some reason. I followed the second set of footsteps to the end of the cavern, where a tunnel opened onto stairs going up. Despite my interest in the buried world I’d found down there, I hadn’t forgotten that I was looking for an exit, and I ran for the tunnel. Past the first few stairs, it was completely impassable, blocked by huge slabs of rock where the roof had crashed in. I searched uselessly for a way around. There was none, and I heard no sign of my walking companion. In the corner of the station, butting up against the wall by the ruined tunnel, was a shop front with a large, painted sign that read, “Minute House.” Through the window, where teeth of glass still jutted out from the frame, the room was cramped with round tables and wooden chairs. Broken cups lay all around, and I thought this must have been some kind of cafe, or maybe a bar. I was considering what to do, whether I should turn back and hope for another train to come, when my light fell on something that was definitely not debris. At the back of the Minute House, a pair of feet stuck out from behind the counter. The door was blocked. Glass tore at my jacket as I clambered through the window, but I ignored it. On the floor amid cracked dishes and decades of dust, three bodies lay side by side. I don’t know enough about decomposition to guess how long they’d rested there, but their flesh had long since worn away. Their clothes were strange--loose, robe-like garments that must have been very colorful, once upon a time. Their arms were crossed over their chests. Who had lain them like that? Were there more bodies down here, tucked away behind their shops? I was so transfixed by these unfortunate people, absorbed in imagining their fate, that I’d forgotten about the one who had led me there. A rock skittering across the floor announced its presence, and I thought I could make out a pair of yellow eyes in the dubious shadow that waited on the other side of the counter. I didn’t know what had killed those people, but something had arranged their bodies. Something had been down there with them, in the still, stale atmosphere of the tomb. When I stood, so did the figure. When I vaulted through the window, catching my foot on the edge and nearly falling into a pile of broken rocks, the figure was close behind, its reflection dark on splinters of glass. Maybe you think I’m foolish for running from it, when earlier I followed it. I thought so myself at first, but the sound of my companion’s footfalls behind me, now loud and distinct from my own, drove me on. It ran with scraping, uneven steps, one foot crunching heavily on the rough concrete while the other dragged behind. [THE SCRAPING STEPS ARE FASTER NOW, KEEPING PACE AS THE NARRATOR RUNS.] The cavern was not so large, but with only a few feet of light ahead of me, it felt like I was running through blackness for ages. By the time I finally came in sight of the rail tracks and the way back up, my heart was hammering against my ribs and I could hardly hear the footsteps gaining on me over my own ragged breaths. I stumbled on the uneven ground just short of the tracks, and my keyring flew from my hand. I was terrified to stop, but I couldn’t find the passage without my light. [A SUBWAY TRAIN APPROACHES, ITS CLANKING AND WHISTLING GROWING LOUDER UNTIL IT FADES INTO THE DISTANCE.] As I knelt to grab it, I was nearly blinded by a wave of light rushing toward me. A train car like I had never seen before, rectangular and lined with large rivets, sped down the track with no intention to stop. It jolted and clattered like a steam engine overworking its boiler, shaking off bolts and bits of metal as it went. If I let the train reach me, I would be trapped until it passed with whatever was behind me. Clutching my flashlight in a shaking fist, I leapt across the tracks. The wind from the barrelling train at my back whipped my hair and clothes about me. A sharp piece of something cut my ear as it flew by. Back in the station where I’d arrived, I huddled on a bench and waited miserably for a train to come. I kept my eyes fixed on the passageway down, sure that at any moment my strange pursuer would appear, its mismatched steps echoing off the tiled walls. When a train finally approached, a shiny steel car I recognized as one of the blue line, I jumped up and ran toward it, waving my arms like mad. It thundered past, indifferent, its bright windows flashing across me like a movie reel. [A TRAIN ARRIVES, AND IS GONE JUST AS QUICKLY.] I felt ready to give up and throw myself down on the flagstones and cry. It was clearly some mistake that had deposited me here, and no train was going to stop. I was sitting in a heap beside my wretched bench, banging my head against a stone column, when the familiar shuffling sounded at the top of the stairs. In the weak halo of my light, I could just make out its outline--man-shaped, so far as I could tell. [THE NOW-FAMILIAR SCRAPING STEPS RETURN.] I had no time to react before another train whistled from way down the tunnel. The figure stepped to the edge of the track and raised an arm. The train hissed as its brakes engaged, slowing to a stop in front of me. I forced my way onto the car before the doors had fully opened and rushed to the opposite window, but the figure was gone. [THE HIGH-PITCHED WHISTLE OF A SUBWAY STOPPING, FOLLOWED BY INTERIOR SOUNDS OF THE TRAIN LEAVING THE STATION.] Gradually I noticed the other people in the car, most reading or staring blankly out the windows as though nothing were unusual. A few looked at me strangely. I asked what station we had just left, and a man in a blue coat said, “That was Aberdeen, pal,” and went back to his paper with a little shake of his head. The next stop was Ender Park. I got off in a kind of daze, found my way to the green trolley, and made it home just after midnight. I’ve spent every evening since then trying to find Perender, and the station built on top of it. No map or blueprint I can dig up shows anything between Aberdeen and Ender Park, on any subway line, let alone an older line below it. But somewhere in the city’s archives, there must be records of where the trains used to run. Where at least one still runs. Please, if you have any information on this, contact me immediately. Pass on my letter to anyone who might be able to help. The more I think on it, the more I’m sure that person or creature, whatever it was, wanted to show me something. It led me down there and helped me escape so that someone on the surface would know. And I need to know. Sincerely, Tobias Renfree. [VAL FOLDS THE LETTER AND RETURNS IT TO THE ENVELOPE. THE MAIL TRUCK RUMBLES OVER UNEVEN ROAD.] VAL: Does it even matter if I put this one back? They’re never going to answer him. VAL: This is Mourning Road, but there’s no...hm. [THE ENGINE STOPS. VAL CLIMBS OUT, HER FEET CRUNCHING ON ROCKS.] VAL: So where am I supposed to…? [VAL KNOCKS ON A DOOR, AND IT OPENS WITH A LONG CREAK.] RESIDENT: What is it that can’t wait? Even the chickens are still asleep. VAL: Sorry. I saw your light on, and I-- RESIDENT: You a pigeon? VAL: Yes. The jacket’s kind of a giveaway, huh? I have this package for 18 Mourning Road-- RESIDENT: This is 15 Mourning Road. VAL: I know that, but-- RESIDENT: Guess you lot can’t see in the dark, huh? VAL: Look, yours is the last house on this road. There’s obviously no number 18. Do you have any idea who this might be for? RESIDENT: There was an 18. There on the other side, right where you’d expect it. VAL: That--it just looks like a huge sinkhole. RESIDENT: It is. Your eyes are better than I thought. VAL: All right. I’ll just deliver this to the massive pit in the ground, then, shall I? RESIDENT: Guess you could. I’m sure the house is still in there. VAL: Wait-- [THE DOOR IS QUICKLY CLOSED.] VAL: Crusty old relic. [FOOTSTEPS ON DIRT, GETTING SLOWER AS VAL CAUTIOUSLY APPROACHES THE PIT.] VAL: What the hell? That shouldn’t be possible. I mean, where does it… [PEBBLES SHIFT UNDERFOOT AS VAL INCHES CLOSER. A DEAFENING RUMBLE RISES FROM THE PIT, SOMEWHERE BETWEEN ROARING WIND AND A ROARING ANIMAL.] [AS THE HOWLING REACHES ITS HEIGHT, THE GROUND FALLS AWAY AND ROCKS SMASH AND TUMBLE OVER EACH OTHER.] VAL: Whoa...oh, sh--no no no no-- [SOUNDS OF EXERTION AS VAL PULLS HERSELF BACK TO SAFETY. THE RUMBLING SUBSIDES, REPLACED BY GUSTS OF WIND.] VAL: (breathing hard) Where’s the--oh. I guess it’s undeliverable now. 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 neighborhood gossip, and tell them about The Night Post.