P.S. #2: The Road to Valencia
Written & Produced by Rae Lundberg
RAE L.: This bonus episode comes from a story released on our Patreon. Subscribers of all tiers get a substantial story every week, exploring new and familiar characters, creatures, and mysteries. Dig deeper into the secrets of the Skelter at patreon.com/thenightpost. And now, on with our route. [MUSIC BEGINS, AND CONTINUES AS VAL SPEAKS: MYSTERIOUS, REPEATED NOTES OVER SLOWER, SOMBER TONES.] VAL: The Skelter is a difficult place to leave. I’m sure our ancestors found that out not long after they got here. These days, socioeconomic issues are a big part of what makes this place a kind of quicksand: most people just don’t have the money to get very far, or they don’t want to abandon their families and generations of history. There’s no way out for pigeons, of course, but I wasn’t willing to accept that my life was forfeit at only nineteen years old. With everything I owned on my back and a splitting headache that I didn’t know yet was the least of my punishment, I headed north with nowhere specific in mind. Maybe it was my lack of clear direction that got me in trouble, or maybe the odd beings of the Skelter recognize a pigeon as one of their own, but when I reached a fork in the road beyond the northernmost edge of the city, there was someone waiting for me. They slouched against what must once have been a signpost, the arrows long since rotted away. Their hide shirt, chaps, boots, even the bandana at their neck--all were deep black, with onyx accents that were barely visible in the low light of dusk. Strangest of all was the hat tilted low over their eyes, the brim upturned to sharp points on the sides, like dark horns. All I could see of their face was their wide, crooked smile, filled with unsettlingly perfect teeth. Remember, I grew up in the Skelter. Even though I’d never seen this “person” before, I knew what they were. No one knows just how many crossroads spirits haunt this place, because they’re said to take different forms. An old woman with an alligator on a leash. A golem made of quartz, with kudzu bursting from its fissures. And apparently, a grinning, demonic cowboy. Whatever shape they take, you can be sure that a crossroads spirit doesn’t just appear for your benefit. They always want something. [WHEN THE SPIRIT SPEAKS, THEIR VOICE IS LOWER IN PITCH, AND REVERBERATES VERY SLIGHTLY.] “Where you headed?” Their voice was smooth, inviting, quiet enough that I found myself moving closer to listen. “Away from here.” If I knew, I don’t think I would have told them. “Who are you?” “A traveler, like you.” I thought I detected amusement in their tone, perhaps an acknowledgement of how ridiculous the lie was. Their spit-blacked shoes and spotless cuffs made it obvious they were no traveler. “Maybe you’d like some directions? A wrong turn in these parts can get you into some real nasty situations.” That much was true. I wasn’t very familiar with that area of the Skelter, and it wasn’t the kind of place where you could rely on a map. “I reckon directions ain’t free,” I said, imitating their silky drawl. “Ain’t nothin’ free. But I’m a kind old soul. I wouldn’t ask for nothin’ you couldn’t afford to lose.” They pointed at my chest, and my heart started to pound. Did they want my life? My soul? “That trinket around your neck. It’s only weighing you down anyhow.” [THE MUSIC BECOMES MORE SOMBER, MORE STRIPPED BACK--A LONE PIANO, EACH CHORD ECHOING LONG AND SLOW.] The pendant was tucked under my shirt, but I wasn’t surprised they knew of it. Old hagglers like them always have a way of knowing what you’ve got to trade. But my necklace wasn’t on the market, not after everything I’d suffered for it. That damn rock on a string was the reason my parents gave me up to the Night Post in the first place, and I wasn’t about to let it go. “Sorry, friend, but that’s a hell no.” “Well. If you’re sure.” I thought they would try to pressure me, but they didn’t, just folded their arms and jerked their head toward the roads branching out behind them. “I won’t get in your way, then. Go on and pick your own path.” They turned slowly as I passed, and I knew they were still watching me even as the growing darkness and distance hid them from view. I didn’t make it out of the Skelter. To cut a long story to the quick, I went in circles for days until my symptoms got worse and I had no choice but to slither back home. I still wonder sometimes, if I had gotten out, if I had made it beyond the grip of these ancient swamps, would the Post have lost its hold on me? If I had taken the spirit’s deal, could I have escaped to freedom? Probably not. Crossroads spirits feed on regret; it’s how they always get what they want, even if you don’t make the trade. I don’t wear the necklace anymore, don’t much care for symbols these days. I keep it hidden at the bottom of my dresser like something shameful, wondering if I’ll ever get another chance to bargain for my freedom.