Episode 2.09: The Ark in Ruins

NICHOLAS: (as the intro plays) At the edge of Gilt City, flames gutter desperately as they drown in wax, and all await the arrival of the Night Post. CLEMENTINE: (drawing curtains) Good morning, sleepyhead. WILL: (groans) I remember telling you that you could wake me up when you got off work, but I didn’t expect it to be this early. CLEMENTINE: (sitting on bed) It’s not that early. It’s a little past six. I had plenty of time to wait in line at your favorite bakery before coming over. WILL: Ooh! I knew there had to be a reason for waking up in the morning. Did you get the blueberry cheesecake scones, or the cinnamon maple muffins, or maybe the-- CLEMENTINE: Cherry-almond danish for you, and a bear claw for me. Two iced lattes with hazelnut and honey, but the decaf one is mine. [PAPER RUSTLES AS THEY UNWRAP THEIR PASTRIES. THEY SHARE A BRIEF KISS.] WILL: Okay, maybe there are two reasons to wake up in the morning. So, tell me how your route went, and I’ll try to find the motivation to move from this spot. CLEMENTINE: I have a story for you, but it’s already tucked into this. (envelope enchanges hands) You don’t have to read it now. I thought you might like to read it tonight, while we’re tragically torn apart by my duty to the Post. WILL: Another letter? You know, we could always talk about things instead. CLEMENTINE: Mmmmm...but I like writing letters. I can collect my thoughts in one place, and hopefully make a few of them make sense. [THE SCRATCHING OF A PEN ON PAPER LEADS INTO THE LETTER.] CLEMENTINE: (reading) Dearest Will, I hope you aren’t tired of letters yet, but I thought I would write one for you to read while I’m on route tonight. Take the time to take care of yourself this evening. Try to get a good night’s rest. I know work’s been stressing you out lately. Is there a branch of the Post that doesn’t have someone’s foot on it, testing how much strength we have before we break? Isn’t working for the Night Post hard enough without all these extra regulations? Everyone at the station is exhausted. I don’t know how Milo is managing to cope with finding Ashley only to lose him again, and Val--I’m not sure how she’s doing. It’s understandable, but she’s been angry and distant ever since...well, angrier and more distant than normal. I want to give her space, if that’s what she needs. At the risk of upsetting her further, I’ve been trying not to smother her, but I want her to know that she isn’t alone. We’re connected by more than just our positions at the Post, and she doesn’t have to process everything that’s happening without help. I haven’t been able to forget what the Stranger said to me on the road. I’ve been writing down my dreams so I don’t forget them, but I won’t put you through the misery of listening to me talk about them. In case these dreams are actually messages or omens, I...I want to be able to remember them. I wouldn’t be surprised if my path crossed with that ghost cowboy again. Once Skelter spirits have taken an interest in you, it’s hard to avoid them. If I see them again, maybe I can think of the right question to ask. Or they’ll give me more cryptic clues, and I’ll be even more confused than I am right now. What did they mean, they hope I’m luckier than my father? The Post didn’t share much about my father’s death. They found him in his truck one morning with his forehead resting on the steering wheel, like he’d pulled over for a quick nap. The report said he died of natural causes, but he wasn’t that old. He didn’t have any underlying health conditions that I knew about. Now I feel stupid for not pressing the Post for more information, but at the time I was overwhelmed and grieving. Am I naive for not demanding to know more? It might be nothing, but I’m going to talk to Nick and ask if he remembers anything that might not have been officially reported. I’ll let you know if anything comes of it. Hopefully, I can catch Nick at a good time. I wonder if he’ll like the chocolate croissants from that bakery you like? Please let me know if you get tired of work stories. I don’t want to bore you. After a while, these peculiar events can start to blend together. What’s another night without a boggling encounter with an unearthly being, or a horrifying sight that I’ll force myself to forget, before it causes me nightmares for the rest of my life? And now we’re supposed to fill out these reports about strange occurrences...but where do these reports even go? Who reads them? They should hire me to do the job. I’d be bored behind a desk all day, but it'd be infinitely easier than running routes myself. I can imagine reading over the rushed end-of-the-night reports and reprimanding pigeons for venturing down dark lanes, or peeking into houses through open screen doors. No, don’t go in there, stupid! It’s full of skeletons and poisonous frogs! I’m not great at taking my own advice. I’m sure sometimes it sounds like I get myself into these messes. Am I too accustomed to danger to accurately calculate the possibility of my survival? A few nights ago, it was extremely foggy, and without headlights, it’s hard to see where I’m headed. I spent the entire night squinting into the darkness, trying to distinguish gray shapes in the hazy moonlight filtering in through the wispy clouds. Luckily, I have a portion of my route memorized, and I was able to find my way without getting too lost in the process. The fog worried me, and soon it’s going to be awfully cold riding around on horseback. I want compensation when I inevitably get sick. I demand the Night Post fund my broth and my cough syrup! I will protest outside of Nick’s office until I receive proper health care, or at least a coupon for the pharmacy. (heavy exhale) At least for now, I don’t have to worry about catching my death on the road. It’s still warm enough if you bundle up. I delivered an envelope to an address at the end of a dead-end street. The resident must not receive much mail, because their crooked mailbox was full of cobwebs. We turned around, and I spotted the structure, illuminated by silvery light even through the haze. Its crooked steeple stuck out like a scolding finger. A path cut through the brittle, brown grass, as if patrons still walked it three times a week, and twice on Saturdays. The foliage bent in a mournful prayer in the wind. Why hadn’t I noticed this chapel before? There aren’t a lot of churches in the Skelter. That’s not how folks worship out here. But often enough, a charismatic character will sprout up and build their own temple in a field. It’s a shame how folks will prey on other people’s fears and their desire for community, using their trust for glory and profit. My father always warned me against these types. He wasn’t religious-- superstitious enough to follow the same practices that his mother taught him. I can’t say how much salt, smoke, and dried herbs can do. I can’t see the harm in trying to avoid the wrath of spirits. (hoofbeats) I turned Daffodil down the beaten path and left her by the wide double doors, hanging open on their hinges like an expectant, unhinged jaw. (doors squeak) [A SHARP, TONAL WIND WHISTLES INTERMITTENTLY. THE DRONE OF CICADAS FILLS THE AIR.] Aren’t churches supposed to make you feel better? I felt uneasy as soon as I stepped into the empty chapel. The window panes no longer held glass, and the door wouldn’t close if I tried, but I couldn’t help but feel a little trapped inside the structure. A sorrowful wind howled through the holes in the ceiling. The crescent moon illuminated the rows of narrow benches. For a former meeting place, it was quiet, and lonely. The only preachers that remained were the clamorous cicadas battling for attention in the tall grass. A trail of dirt and dried leaves swept up the aisle towards the raised platform and its ramshackle pedestal. I couldn’t say how long the little church had been left abandoned. The Skelter has a way of reclaiming manmade things, drawing them in with viney tendrils and breaking them apart, piece by piece. The land where my father’s house stood is a green field now. You would never know that it was once a pile of scorched earth and glowing rubble. I used to love collecting things that had been transformed by the Skelter. Broken glass rounded by raging, spring-swollen creeks, patches of fabric blown free from laundry lines and worn near-transparent by the rain, or metal scraps red with rust and bent--almost invisible amongst the rocks. I kept these little artifacts with my hag stones and pressed wildflowers, arranged in wooden crates or sandwiched between the pages of books. I thought I’d grab one of these Skelter-weathered gems for you, but whoever used to worship here didn’t leave a lot of memorabilia behind. There was a torn fragment from a flyer with illegible text and an illustration of two outstretched palms. A charred patch of wood stretched across the front of the stage like a black scar. The remains of a piano rested in the corner, the remaining keys covered in a fine gray dust. (floor creaks) The boards winced under my weight, but the platform seemed stable enough. As soon as I stepped up onto the stage, a force pushed me back. It felt like a firm hand on my shoulder, and the physicality of the invisible touch was more than enough to tell me it was time to get out and get back on the road. I turned to sprint down the aisle, but something tripped me, and I fell into one of the pews. (sits heavily) Splinters and dust welcomed their way into my clothes, and when I tried to get back to my feet, I felt the pressure on my shoulders, encouraging me to return to my seat. PREACHER: Greetings, little sister. Did you come to hear the message? CLEMENTINE: (reading) A man’s voice reverberated through the empty hall, bold and smooth, louder than necessary for an audience of one. Behind the pulpit, a man appeared in the swell of an inhale. (echoing footsteps) He wore a pressed white suit, covered in countless reflective silver beads, and heeled shoes that clicked when he stepped. His smile was faultless, shining bright white even without a light. I didn’t want to risk angering whatever spent its time lingering in a dust-coated chapel, but I obviously wasn’t interested in whatever message they had to share with me. CLEMENTINE: No, no thank you. I was only...stopping by. I’ve got a long road ahead of me tonight, and I wouldn’t want to take up any of your valuable time. CLEMENTINE: (reading) I tried to excuse myself as politely as possible, but when I stepped into the aisle, I felt something take my hand. Unseen fingers interlaced with mine, and I couldn’t shake my hand free. It wasn’t an aggressive gesture, but I felt myself being led to the front row of the pews. [EERIE, UNINTELLIGIBLE WHISPERS FROM MANY VOICES RISE IN THE BACKGROUND.] As I passed the empty rows, I heard a collective of voices whispering. With every step, the preacher beckoned me closer, until I stood by the first row. Invisible hands touched my back, my shoulders, my arms. They felt oppressive. It’d be funny how much power these mysterious spirits have, if it wasn’t so terrifying. PREACHER: Little sister, your body and spirit are in danger, but we can show you the path ahead. Isn’t that right, folks? [A LARGE CROWD CHEERS AND APPLAUDS.] CLEMENTINE: (reading) An uproar erupted all around me, clapping and stomping that rattled the floorboards under my feet. (footsteps) The preacher didn’t wait or care for a reply from me. His heels clicked against the stage, a practiced dance. I tried to walk away from this nonsense, but the disembodied hands were firm and warm against me, holding me in place. What would it take for this spirit to let me leave? PREACHER: There is no future for this blighted land. We must hold on for the glittering tomorrow. The birth of a new way is coming. Are you ready to accept it? CLEMENTINE: (reading) As he spoke, light beamed behind him through the shattered windows, as if the moon lowered herself to listen. None of this spirit’s sermon made sense, and I was losing valuable time to complete my route. I shook my head. CLEMENTINE: Thank you for the offer, but I’ve got to get back on the road. CLEMENTINE: (reading) I tried to make my voice sound firm, assertive--but that’s a struggle for me. The spirit let out a cry, and it echoed like thunder through the chapel. [THUNDER RUMBLES AS A SHORT YELL REVERBERATES.] PREACHER: (footsteps) A pigeon should know the natural order of things. How can you be so ignorant? CLEMENTINE: (reading) When that fury was directed towards me, accompanied by the click of boots, I couldn’t help but be intimidated. [DARK WHISPERS OVERLAP IN NO KNOWN LANGUAGE.] Whatever power this spectral preacher had, it was strong enough to influence a host of disembodied hands and voices--all of which seemed willing to scold or cajole me in hollow whispers. PREACHER: Pay attention, foolish child. CLEMENTINE: (reading) The spectral pastor placed his hands on my shoulders. (sizzling) It felt like his touch sizzled through my jumpsuit and seared my skin. My flesh felt like it was bubbling, like a fine film on the top of a boiling broth. I thought my legs might collapse underneath me. My vision blurred, and the glittering spirit wavered like gray smoke in front of my eyes, before everything blinked into darkness. It’s hard to explain the kaleidoscope of images that flashed through my mind, pain seizing with each flicker of vibrant impressions like a migraine. [CLIPPED, DISTORTED SOUNDS, LIKE INHUMAN WHISPERS FLICKERING IN AND OUT, FILL THE BACKGROUND.] There was a glittering city, but it looked nothing like Gilt City. There were towering spires, electricity sizzling through the air from bulbous copper structures, shining streetcars weaving intricate nets through narrow streets, and I heard...music and, and voices, overlapping in an incomprehensible din. The earth cracked, fires cackled, bone-white lightning burned my eyelids, and I felt thunder through the wooden boards under my feet. There were hundreds of faces, a thousand eyes staring into me, and an endless stream of mouths moving silently in prayer. Eventually-- (echoes stop) there was nothing. I tried to blink away the vision, reach out for the back of a pew to steady myself, but there was...nothing. I was alone with the smell of rain-soaked earth in my nose, and the echoes of cryptic images I still don’t understand. When my vision cleared, I blinked away tears and stumbled out of the ramshackle chapel. I steered Daffodil back on the trail, setting our pace to leave the structure in our dust. Why did that conman-coated preacher-type show me that? What was I supposed to learn? Why did the Stranger stop me to tell me about my father? I don’t understand, and I can’t make sense of it. I don’t expect that you’ll be able to parse these visions either, but I wanted to share them with you. I...I-I can’t hold them all myself. If you haven’t already tossed this letter into the trash and written me off as a road-warped pigeon, thank you for listening. I love you. Sincerely yours, Clementine. [THE BUZZER RINGS ON STATION 103’S FRONT DOOR.] CLEMENTINE: Oh, Val! I’m glad I caught you before you left. VAL: Had to fill out a half-dozen of those stupid reports. I’m ready to go home and collapse. CLEMENTINE: How’s your-- VAL: (interrupting) Don’t ask. CLEMENTINE: Sorry, I’m not trying to smother you or anything. I know you’re perfectly capable, but-- VAL: You’re fine. CLEMENTINE: I’ve been reading up on Skelter traditions and stories, trying to figure out what my weird dreams mean, or find out more about how Milo can contact Ashley, wherever he is, and, ah...I made you something. [THE RATTLING OF A CHARM, BONES CONNECTED WITH STRING.] VAL: What is it? CLEMENTINE: It’s a simple charm, ah--the smell should fade in a few days. I collected the components myself, the raven feathers and quartz. The thread is from an old hairband, I hope that’s not too gross. It’s supposed to ease aches and pains. You should hang it in your truck. (charm rattles) VAL: Thanks, but...no thanks. This weird Skelter shit’s done enough damage. CLEMENTINE: It’s...just a gesture. I thought you might need some support. It feels like you’re trying to cut everyone out of your life. VAL: I don’t have to cut you out, Clem. You’re never around. CLEMENTINE: I know, I’ve been busier lately, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still care about you. It isn’t like you’ve been the easiest person to be around since your accident. VAL: “My accident.” Is that what we’re calling it now, or did you get suckered into believing the official Post version of the story? CLEMENTINE: I...it-it’s not--you can’t honestly believe that Night Post officials have the ability to cause sinkholes at will. VAL: What would the Night Post like me to believe? I’m sure you have the official story from Wilhelmina. CLEMENTINE: What’s your problem with Will? You barely know her. VAL: You barely know her, but you both like being the Post’s pet ferrets. So I guess you’re a good fit for each other. CLEMENTINE: None of us chose this. VAL: You wouldn’t know it to watch you jump, sit, and roll over. What do you think you’re going to achieve by bending over backwards to tongue kiss the boots of anyone who outranks you? CLEMENTINE: (charm rattling) That’s--wow, okay. I’m trying to help. You don’t have to be a b--you don’t have to be unkind. VAL: I’m sorry, but cursed keychains aren’t nostalgic for me. It’s bad enough I have to deal with it every night, I’m not going to start a spooky arts and crafts fuck-club with you. CLEMENTINE: The Skelter and its traditions, they aren’t all bad. We can learn from it and it can help us, if we let it. These are my roots, Val. VAL: They’re my fucking roots too, or did you forget? No one understands the shit out there, but I can tell you this much: it’s fucking bad. We all almost died, Clementine. I don’t want a fucking part of it. CLEMENTINE: You could’ve just stopped at “no thank you.” Aren’t we supposed to be supporting each other? Watching the sun on your shoulder, or whatever? VAL: You know, you have an awfully romantic view of the Post for a girl who lost her whole family to it. What has the Night Post done for you, except take and wait and take again? Are you and Will family planning? You’ve got two slots to fill amongst Gilt City’s finest couriers. CLEMENTINE: That’s uncalled for. VAL: Is it? Or do you just not like to hear it? CLEMENTINE: I used to wonder why you didn’t have any friends at the station, but now I know why. VAL: I was better off on my own, anyway. CLEMENTINE: I’m glad you feel that way, because that’s how you’re going to end up. [QUICK FOOTSTEPS LEAVE. A DOOR SLAMS.] NICHOLAS: (as the outro plays) Thank you for joining us on tonight’s route. You can find the couriers of Station 103 at nightpostpod.com or on Twitter @nightpostpod. If you’re satisfied with your postal service, please rate and review us, or consider supporting us on Patreon. Send a letter to a charismatic upstart, and tell them about The Night Post. Promo for Echobox: [ECHOBOX INTRO PLAYS] ECHO: Hello? Wait...hello? Welcome to Echobox, your favorite hot spot for all the Olympian gos’. My name is Echo and I’m here to tell you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I made this podcast to open the box and tell people everything - and I mean everything - they ever wanted to know about the Olympian Records royalty. HERMES: Echo, please, I– I really don't want to turn this into a fight. You seem nice enough, there's no reason for you to get caught up in some big legal battle with Olympus Records. You would never win. You know that right? We can't lose, Echo. HADES: (softer) And if you find a rat working here at the studio, please point them out to me. We’ll find the leak soon. I set a few mouse traps around the office and I know one of them has to go off soon. ECHO: This is Echo speaking. And, well. I guess you guys are truly listening, huh? [OUTRO SONG] V.O.: Echobox is a fictional retelling of the Greek myths set in the glamourous L.A. Instead of gods, our favorite myths are celebrities. Dirty, rich, spoiled, and everything else you can imagine. Echo is someone who is willing to tear them all apart - from the inside. Listen to Echobox podcast anywhere you listen to podcasts and get ready to enjoy all of this juicy gossip and the divine drama.

Episode 2.09: The Ark in Ruins

Written by Elizabeth R.C. Lundberg

Produced by Rae Lundberg

Content Warnings (Click to expand)