Episode 1.05: Trespassers Will
Written by Elizabeth R. C. Lundberg
Written by Rae Lundberg
Content Warnings (Click to expand)
Homelessness, guns, death mention, being watched
NICHOLAS: (as the intro plays) At the edge of Gilt City, the bellowing wind makes even long-toothed hunters cower, and all await the arrival of the Night Post. VAL: You’ve got one too. CLEMENTINE: One what? VAL: One of those packages. I watched them sorting out your bags, and I noticed it looked exactly like one I technically delivered to a sinkhole last week. CLEMENTINE: You delivered it to a sinkhole? VAL: Apparently, the house was still in there. Maybe there’s folks living down there, but I didn’t crawl down to look. I was curious if your mysterious box would be undeliverable, too. CLEMENTINE: Which package are you even talking about? VAL: You’ll know which one when you pick it up, it’s heavier than the rest. Let me know if it takes you anywhere interesting. CLEMENTINE: A heavy package addressed to a hole in the ground. Okay, I’ll keep my eye out. [CLEMENTINE’S PEN SCRATCHES ACROSS THE PAPER.] CLEMENTINE: (reading) Dear Magpie, How’s life in the city? Hot, I imagine. It’s like summer doesn’t want to let us go. On my time off, I drive near the city, but I can’t bring myself to head near the heart of it. [BENEATH HER VOICE, CITY SOUNDS RISE: HORNS HONKING, ALARMS, PEOPLE CALLING TO EACH OTHER.] It’s too loud, too busy, and I feel like all those people would pass through me if I tried to go near them. At night, I can see the lights, and I wonder, how can any of you sleep? It’s too bright, a burning tessellation that never gets tired. Usually, individual houses don’t stand out on a route, unless there's an unfortunate reason, like an unfriendly animal, an uneven path that always trips you, or a resident that sleeps on the porch with a loaded rifle [RIFLE COCKS], and if he catches you by the mailbox he howls like a soul possessed. [A MAN YELLS, WILD AND UNINTELLIGIBLE.] Sometimes, I’ll remember a house that’s charming or well-decorated, or one I make frequent deliveries to, but I never noticed this particular stop until a week or so. I wouldn’t swear I’ve never delivered to this address before, but it wasn’t memorable until it became impossible to drop off their correspondence. 174 Briarwood Drive doesn’t have a mailbox, only a bronze slot in the elaborate front door. You can’t see the ivy-covered brick house from the road. It’s nestled in a ring of old trees, in the middle of a circle drive, and there’s a crumbling stone fountain to complete an atmosphere of decaying grandeur. Thorny bushes boast the last remaining petals of unpruned flowers, and the air smells heavy of perfume. Walking up to the red brick steps, I was glad I drove the truck down the drive. It sounds paranoid, but I felt like I was being watched. All I wanted to do was bolt back to the truck as soon as I stuck the three slender envelopes through the slot in the door. Ashley’s disappearance is bothering me more than I’d like to admit. We still don’t know what happened, and I need to be vigilant. I know that no one’s coming looking for me if I don’t come back from my route. Moonlight reflected off the dark windows. No light escaped from the inside, and I imagined heavy velvet curtains drawn tight over the house’s many glass eyes. As I stepped closer to the intimidating entranceway, I swore I heard the faint sound of breathy laughter on the opposite side of the door. [A YOUNG GIRL’S GIGGLING ECHOES, BRIEFLY.] But I ignored it. Paranoia is a bad look for pigeons. I imagine that’s something Val would say. Paranoia is bad, but a healthy dose of suspicion will keep you alive? But, I’m sure Val doesn’t get spooked over old houses. It’s still easier to describe these things to you instead of trying to talk about them to anyone in the office. I know I must sound ridiculous, overtired and overstressed, and the quality of sleep in the back of the truck isn’t the best. So who would believe me when I told them that when I pushed the letters through the creaking bronze slot in the door, that they shot back at me like they’d been spit out of the mouth of a sorting machine? [PAPER RUSTLES AS IT FLIES THROUGH THE AIR.] I collected the envelopes from where they fell by my feet. I inched them through the mail slot, and tried to peek inside to see if someone was playing a trick, but I couldn’t see much through the narrow opening. A dark entrance hall with a grand staircase, electric lamps burning low even at the late hour, but no sign of movement. I watched the pale letters fall onto the patterned carpet, stood, turned to walk away, but the envelopes flew back at me. The paper scraped my shins as they scattered across the porch, and I gathered them up in one fist. If this was a prank, I was in no mood to deal with it. There isn’t enough time built into my route to deal with someone or something trying to play with me. I assured whoever or whatever might be hiding behind the door as much with a dry laugh as I pushed the letters back inside, holding my hands over the slot to keep it shut. [THE LAUGHTER OF AT LEAST TWO GIRLS, LONGER THIS TIME, COMES FROM BEHIND THE DOOR.] This time the laughter was unmistakable, high and airy. It echoed through the hall inside. I waited, the letters remained on the correct side of the door, and I headed back towards the truck ready to forget the annoyance. [THE GIRLS LAUGH LOUDER, CACKLING AND DISSOLVING INTO GIGGLES.] The laughter followed me towards the truck, and I looked back towards the house. Through one of the large windows, a narrow stream of light poured out across the lawn, and four bright eyes remained fixed on me. I waved at the shadowy figures of two small girls, pushing each other over for a better view. One of the girls waved back and the other disappeared behind the curtain. I relaxed when I climbed back behind the wheel. After all my speculation, it was only two curious children trying to get a peek at their mysterious pigeon, and I imagined if their parents caught them that they would be prevented from staying up late to try to play with me again. As I pulled away from the winding drive, I worried that this job might have already begun to take its toll on me. Didn’t I just write that the Skelter is full of magic if you know where to look? And now, I’m suspicious of children? Too tired and focused on a done-by-dawn deadline to take the time to play. Another set of cream-colored envelopes sent me back to 174 Briarwood, but this time I expected the back-and-forth. I didn’t see the girls through the mail slot, but I tried to make the game go as quickly as possible, catching the letters and sending them back.The laughter was the same, but the letters snapped back at me with more force. [FLYING PAPERS] The corner of one sliced the skin between my thumb and forefinger. A thin slit of blood appeared, but it was only a papercut. I returned the letters, announcing to the children on the other side that I couldn’t stay any longer. They flew back at me, and I clicked my tongue at the girls. “Correspondence is important. Someone is waiting on these letters, and they won’t be pleased if they don’t get delivered.” There wasn’t a response from inside, but the envelopes were ejected each time I’d pushed them through the slot. Frustrated, I stacked the letters and left them on the doorstep. It would have to do. I kept an eye out for the children in the windows on my way back, but the windows were all black. In the darkness, they looked like a dozen mirrors reflecting the treetops and the silvery, moonlit clouds. This probably still sounds mundane, and I still didn’t think much about 174 Briarwood Drive until Postmaster Best pulled me aside one night and said he’d received a complaint about a missing delivery on my route. At first, I wanted to explain the situation to him, but it sounded like an excuse. I had a gut feeling that those envelopes would be missed, and whatever happened to them after I left felt like my responsibility. But it’s not like a bit of missing mail is a fireable offense, and I tried my best not to dwell on the reprimand. Still, something about the situation felt sour to me. When I pulled another set of matching envelopes with that familiar address printed on them, I couldn’t ease the feeling of dread that accompanied them. Maybe Val’s right, and I’m too worried about doing every aspect of my job to perfection, because I knew before I stepped onto the porch I wouldn’t be able to get the letters through the mail slot. I’m not sure how long I should have crouched down in front of a door and let envelopes fly into my face, but it was my third delivery to 174 Briarwood, and I was determined not to get another complaint, despite whatever was happening with this house or its residents. I didn’t hear laughter, or catch a glimpse of the children through the window, but something or someone was still forcing the letters out faster than I could slide them inside. What I could see through the mail slot hadn’t changed, no movement or light. “Hello, girls, what are your names?” If the children were still trying to play, maybe I could convince them to stop. What could a mail courier bribe unruly children with? It’s not like I kept lollipops or stamps with cartoons on them in the truck. I waited for a response, and when none came, I tried again. “My name’s Clementine, and it’s my job to make sure these super important letters get delivered.” Maybe the kids had picked up a spooky story about the Post, and thought they were protecting their household from a curse slid through the door at night. Of all the pigeons, (chuckling) they’re on my route. I mean I would hardly call myself intimidating, and most of the rumours about mail carriers aren’t true. “Do you mind letting these letters stay in the house tonight? And we can play again when I have another delivery to make?” Without a response, I pushed the envelopes through the slot and held my hands over the bronze plate to keep it shut. As soon as I moved, the letters flew across the porch and circled in the breeze like birds searching for perches before fluttering to the ground. Frustrated, I gathered up the letters and considered that I might find an unconventional way to deliver them. Maybe I could find a window cracked or a side door ajar, and toss the things inside. Eventually, the residents would find their mail. Overgrown shrubbery framed the house. Ivy climbed its brick walls, sinking leafy tendrils into the weakest parts of the masonry. [STEADY FOOTSTEPS THROUGH UNDERGROWTH] My footsteps sounded thunderous through the fallen leaves and sun-dried twigs, but I kept my eyes trained on the windows for any sign of the children, or better yet, their guardian. I didn’t want to be caught sneaking around the house, but if it meant getting back on route, it would be worth the embarrassment. I found the kitchen window open, and I climbed through the bushes to toss the envelopes as far as I could inside. I watched them fall on the floor, glowing almost bone-white in the moonlight, right in front of the kitchen island. If anything, it would be more convenient for the residents. They could check their mail with their morning coffee. Cutting through the thorny bushes left my legs covered in pinpricks of blood, but I jogged back to the truck feeling relieved. Time spent trying to deliver to this one house had set me behind, and I would have to rush to catch up. It isn’t something to brag about, but I have a good history with the Post. My performance reviews have always been satisfactory. I try to keep my head down, get my job done, and go home. Or at least I did when I still had a home to go back to. Remember, a bit of missing mail isn’t a fireable offense. I’m not aware of what is a fireable offense from the Post, but I don’t want to be the one to discover it. Before Postmaster Best mentioned the address, I knew the mail wasn’t missing. This time, I did my best to explain everything about 174 Briarwood Drive without sounding like I was trying to shift a simple mistake off onto a pair of children. The delivery was made. What were those kids doing to the letters? Eating them? And who would call to complain about a missed delivery but not stop their kids from bothering their innocent mail carrier? Yeah, I know, literally any postal customer. After trying to make the delivery despite the little obstacles, the complaints frustrated me, and I couldn’t stop dwelling on it. What I was supposed to do with a future delivery to 174 Briarwood, Postmaster Best didn’t tell me. Another set of three ivory envelopes appeared in my bag, and I was tempted to toss them out the window and keep driving. That would be a missed delivery. If only I could write to say that I did something so outrageous. But the complaint soured me to the residents, and I was determined to hand-deliver their letters despite the time of night. I knocked on the imposing front door with as much confidence as I could manage, and waited, envelopes in hand. Hand-delivering to residents isn’t standard practice, and I imagined that having an annoyed pigeon at your door in the early morning hours would spook some in the Skelter something fierce. I knocked again with some force, but I didn’t want to give the children in the house any mail-related trauma or have an angry parent shouting and interrupting their sleep. Though, I am the one whose schedule had been thrown off by this one troublesome stop. I maintained the right to be annoyed, especially after waiting on the silent doorstep like an idiot. Should’ve marked the letters undeliverable and returned them to the office, but instead I walked around the outside of the house, looking for another possible way to deliver these stupid envelopes. I was curious about what was so important, but not enough to risk peeking inside one of them. This address had given me enough trouble without sending me back en route with a curse or something worse. Around the back of the house was an all-weathers porch. Shattered glass and overgrown vines made the addition look sad, compared to the sunlit prism it must’ve once been. The door was swinging open, banging against the frame in the breeze. I stepped inside, almost without touching the door, as if I didn’t open it myself, it wouldn’t be as bad of a trespass. It was easy to maneuver around dried-up planters and a lopsided porch swing hanging sideways on one chain. With every step, I was surprised that I had made it that far. Letters in hand, I determined I would find a safe place to deposit them and leave as quickly as possible. [A CONTEMPLATIVE PIANO TUNE PLAYS BENEATH THE DIALOGUE, AND EVENTUALLY GROWS FASTER.] The door into the house wasn’t locked, and I glanced over one shoulder when I opened it. I couldn’t quite look at myself entering a residence, even if it was only to make a particularly stubborn delivery. Cast in shadow and swallowed by a layer of dust, the former opulence of the house wasn’t lost on me as I moved through the hall. I left the letters on the secretary by the front door, and was about to leave the way I entered when I noticed a picture hanging at the top of the stairs. Blurry through a layer of grime, a family grinned out of the gilded frame. Two women and their children, and admittedly my sourness for the residents softened, until the recognition settled in. I crept up the stairs for a closer look of a woman who must have been my mother. I’d only seen her in photographs, but this image was a match. The long braid trailing over one shoulder, almost identical to my own. For a moment, I was overwhelmed with the possibility that my mother could still be alive and living another life in this home with another woman. Could I have inherited more from her than I imagined? In a bit of manic energy I couldn’t contain, I bolted up the stairs and hoped one of the women would catch me in the house so that I could demand answers, but the more of the house I intruded into, the more empty rooms I found. Eventually, I announced my presence and called out, but I received no response. I wandered into a nursery full of soft animal toys and books, with two pink quilts tucked into place on two empty twin beds. In the master bedroom, there was an empty four-poster with a long, billowing canopy. Pausing in front of the dresser, I picked up and dusted off framed pictures of the two women together and tried to memorize their faces. Even in the faded photographs, they looked happy together. It made me miss you. Who knows how long I stood there? Confused and overwhelmed, biting back tears in this house that was apparently designed to haunt me. [AS THE MUSIC FADES, A BOARD GROANS, SLOW AND DRAWN-OUT.] A creak in the floorboard reminded me that I might not be alone in the house after all. [BREAKING GLASS] I dropped the frame I was holding and it shattered. I gathered the shards the best I could, and dumped them into a wastebasket that hadn’t been emptied in ages. When I went to replace the photograph and glassless frame, I realized the picture wasn’t of my mother. It was me. Something about me was different, sure. That’s why I couldn’t recognize myself. I was a bit older, maybe less tired. Maybe this was a version of me that never had to join the Post. Or maybe this was a version of us if we had made it work. I folded the picture in half and shoved it in my pocket. I couldn’t take the time to dwell on it now, especially when I had wasted so much time in the house. [STEPS CREAK UNEVENLY ON THE WOODEN FLOOR.] The creaking footsteps in the hallway grew nearer, and when I stepped out of the bedroom, I was apparently still alone, but I didn’t want to stay in the house any longer. I didn’t look at the photograph again until I was long gone from 174 Briarwood, and parked under the familiar flickering lights that illuminate the post office parking lot. Whatever I saw inside the house, the picture is of me. I look like I did when you left. Tired from working nights, a giraffe body I don’t know how to control, a face that I might as well have stolen from the mother I never met--so, whatever I thought I saw, it’s only a picture of me. Do you want it? I don’t think I do. I’ll seal it with this letter, and neither of us will have to look at it again. Sincerely yours, Clementine. [SHE FINISHES THE LETTER WITH A FINAL STROKE OF THE PEN.] CLEMENTINE: You didn’t wait up for me, did you? VAL: And what if I did? I’m curious about that package, anything of interest? CLEMENTINE: It was, uh, addressed to my Dad’s house. VAL: And you have a bad relationship with your father? CLEMENTINE: My Dad’s dead, and the house is burnt down. VAL: Oh, I see. I’m sorry-- CLEMENTINE: It’s alright. VAL: What did you do with the package? Did you open it? CLEMENTINE: No, of course not. I didn’t know what to do with it. It freaked me out. It’s still in the back of my truck. I thought I would turn it in. VAL: No, don’t do that. Let’s go and check it out. Wasn’t it technically addressed to your Dad’s place? You can’t feel bad about opening his mail, especially since he got you stuck in this place. CLEMENTINE: Something feels off about this whole thing, and I don’t trust it. I don’t know anyone who would be sending my Dad mail, especially now that he’s gone. VAL: Aren’t you curious? CLEMENTINE: Yeah, a bit, but...I need more time to think. VAL: Okay, okay. But don’t go turning it in. Who knows, it could be important--or valuable. 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 sleep paralysis demon, and tell them about The Night Post.