the Dead Letter Office of Somewhere, Ohio

A series of weird horror podcasts set in the midwest. The Dead Letter Office of Somewhere, Ohio is a horror-comedy fiction podcast set within one of the last remaining Dead Letter Offices in the country. Join Conway, Wren, and the rest as they archive strange, spooky, surreal pieces of lost mail. A solo project by a nonbinary creator inspired by Kentucky Route Zero, Twin Peaks, Edgar Allen Poe, and more. Each episode features 2 short stories connected in some way, either narratively or thematically. What begins as an anthology evolves into...something else. Content warnings are posted in the show notes, along with transcripts. Written, performed, and scored by Rat Grimes (they/he) Art by Nerdvolkurisu

NEW SERIES: The Department of Variance (SEPARATE FEED) 12/07/2022

TRAILER: The Department of Variance of Somewhere, Ohio 11/24/2022

BONUS: Nine II Midnight: Horrors of our Dreams 10/31/2022

BONUS: Nine II Midnight: Horrors of our Dreams It seems like the horrors of our dreams are most frightening to you... On the Eve of Halloween, a dozen storytellers sneak inside the abandoned Darklight Carnival grounds to share a chilling batch of stories in two varieties. This year they split up to uncover the fears that lurk within and horrors that walk among us. One group will head to the Ferris Wheel to tell tales of real-world terror. The other will venture into the Funhouse to spin yarns of the frightening spirit world. Which path will you embark on first? Nine II Midnight is a collaborative storytelling event between 12 podcasts: CREDITS & CONTENT WARNINGS CW: General horror, swearing throughout Produced by Harlan Guthrie Master edit by Harlan Guthrie 'Nine II Midnight' written by Harlan Guthrie. Performed by Harlan Guthrie, Dylan Griggs, Kevin Berrey, Shaun Pellington, Rae Lundberg, Vincent C. Davis, Jess Syratt, Alex Nursall, Rat Grimes, Jeremy Enfinger, Nathan Lunsford, Cole Weavers, and Jamie Petronis. Pick a path on October 30th at midnight, and keep your wits about you. 9️⃣🔪🔪🕛TRANSCRIPTS ARE AVAILABLE CREDITS: WOE.BEGONE "The Almanac Building" was written, directed, performed, and scored by Dylan Griggs. CW: gore, animal death Website: _________________________ OUT OF THE ASHES “Train Ride” was written, directed, and performed by Vincent Comegys-Davis. CW: hospitals/medical issues, death, blood, gore Website: _________________________ THE NIGHT POST "Dead Space" was written, performed, and produced by Rae Lundberg CW: animal peril, drowning Website: _________________________ NOWHERE, ON AIR “A Dream” was written, performed, and edited by Jesse Syratt (credits for SFX available in the transcript) CW: brief graphic description of body horror and sounds. Website: _________________________ HELL GATE CITY “Shadow of the Eliminator” was written and performed by Kevin Berrey with music by Cheska Navarro. CW: hallucinations/visions, bodily fluids Website: _________________________ THE STORAGE PAPERS “Silly Billy” was written, edited, and mixed by Nathan Lunsford. Performed by Jeremy Enfinger (as Jeremy) and Nathan Lunsford (as Billy). Music credits available in the transcript. CW: profanity, child injury, brief gore (SFX) Website: /episode/index/show/deadletters/id/24809064

BONUS: Nine II Midnight: Terrors of the Real World 10/31/2022

BONUS: Nine II Midnight: Terrors of the Real World It seems like the terrors of the real world are most appealing to you and for good reason... On the Eve of Halloween, a dozen storytellers sneak inside the abandoned Darklight Carnival grounds to share a chilling batch of stories in two varieties. This year they split up to uncover the fears that lurk within and horrors that walk among us. One group will head to the Ferris Wheel to tell tales of real-world terror. The other will venture into the Funhouse to spin yarns of the frightening spirit world. Which path will you embark on first? Nine II Midnight is a collaborative storytelling event between 12 podcasts: CREDITS & CONTENT WARNINGS CW: General horror, swearing throughout Produced by Harlan Guthrie Master edit by Harlan Guthrie 'Nine II Midnight' written by Harlan Guthrie. Performed by Harlan Guthrie, Dylan Griggs, Kevin Berrey, Shaun Pellington, Rae Lundberg, Vincent C. Davis, Jess Syratt, Alex Nursall, Rat Grimes, Jeremy Enfinger, Nathan Lunsford, Cole Weavers, and Jamie Petronis. Pick a path on October 30th at midnight, and keep your wits about you. 9️⃣🔪🔪🕛 TRANSCRIPTS ARE AVAILABLE CREDITS: MALEVOLENT “Scratching” was written, directed, performed, and edited by Harlan Guthrie. CW: insects, gore Malevolent Website: _________________________ THE CELLAR LETTERS “Get Up” was written, edited, and performed by Jamie Petronis, and features Brandon Jones as the Newscaster CW: general horror, mouth noises, licking sounds Website: www.thecellarletters.com _________________________ WAKE OF CORROSION “The Quiet Corridor” was written, performed, edited and mixed by Shaun Pellington. CW: sounds of bone crunching/cracking, mild terror, explicit language Website: _________________________ THE DEAD LETTER OFFICE OF SOMEWHERE, OHIO “Voices in the Vents” was written, performed, and scored by Rat Grimes (they/them). CWs: fire, home invasion Website: _________________________ THE TOWN WHISPERS “Bella” was written, Directed, Editing by Cole Weavers CW: body horror, sleepwalking, nightmares, evil pets Website: _________________________ PARKDALE HAUNT “Who Goes?” was written by Alex Nursall and Emily Kellogg, with engineering and sound design by Alex Nursall. Performed by Emily Kellogg, Alex Nursall, Ian Boddy, and Harlan Guthrie. CW: ghosts/hauntings, home invasion Website: /episode/index/show/deadletters/id/24809016

BONUS: NINE II MIDNIGHT - PROLOGUE 10/01/2022

DLO 19: WE'RE STILL HERE 03/01/2022

DLO 19: WE'RE STILL HERE Forward and backward are not stable concepts. The curtains close, a mask is shattered, but we're still here. Wren helps a lost soul and meets some familiar ones. Thank you all so much for listening, and special thanks to guests Jess Syratt of Nowhere, On Air and Shannon Strucci of Critical Bits and more. (CWs, spoilers: bullying, derealization, implied dysphoria, brief fire and engine sounds, alcohol, smoking) *audience shuffling and chatting, dies down* LOST FISHERMAN: “Good evening, dear audience. Tonight we present to you the final act in a series of strange events. The detective this evening will be played by Wren once more, with the receiving clerk reprising the role of the vanished. I will be your chorus. When you see me again, it will all be over. When I return, you will not be ready, but it must end as all things do. Until then, please enjoy the show. “A crack in the sky and a hand reaching down to me” WREN: The vault wasn’t so much an actual vault, but–as you’ve no doubt surmised–a cave. Like the cave I had encountered before, where Lucy served me breakfast. Where I cried over eggs and toast. Maybe just a different part of the same cave, even. All around me, stacked and scattered throughout the yawning caverns was dead mail: letters, packages, objects covered in grime and dust. The light from my phone only revealed a harsh circle in front of me, leaving much of the vault in total darkness. I felt things stirring in that darkness whenever I turned away. They gathered behind me, at my sides, spiraled gaseous tendrils around my ears. But they dissipated any time I faced them. I flipped through folders and sifted through cabinets and baskets full of decomposing paper. I found many strange stories among the mundane cruft. Some stories I had heard before, some I had not. These pieces had little in common: from different parts of the country, different times, different people. Many followed a similar thread, though. Something under the office’s purview, my purview, appeared in each: a moth here, an alien worm there. Just little hints of the ineffable, the sublime radioactive backdrop that most people tune out. This damp hall was where my furry friend would have ended up, had I not saved them from that fate. I panned the pulp silt for gold, trying to find any clue I could sink my teeth into. I went further and farther back, in time and in space. The older files were kept ever deeper in the cave. I was in the middle of reading a peculiar letter regarding an ill-tempered neighbor when my boot struck a vein. Masonry. Not the deep brown rock surrounding me, but a gray slab shaped by human hands. Around the base of the stone was a shallow puddle. I looked up and there I saw an angel. An angel in gray, its features blurred and worn by time, its form smudged with black. Had the angel been there the whole time, or had it just appeared a moment ago? I leaned closer and inspected its surface. All across this sculpture–from the top of its head to the base–were dark fingerprints. I gently slid the letter I was carrying through one of the tacky prints. The black substance followed, sticking to the paper. Simply looking was going to get me nowhere. What use is a detective that only uses one sense, anyway? I held the tacky substance close to my nose and inhaled. Fire, smoke, machinery. This thing was covered in scorched oil. The angel’s hands were clasped to its chest, and I could tell there was something within. I recalled a story I had heard about a sculpture of similar kind. About a disappearance and a hanging thread. I had to know what was held in its hands. As if already planting its roots in my mind, the angel’s stone fingers unfolded, and there it proffered an egg, no bigger than a chicken’s. I dared not touch the angel, this seraph bathed in the blood of the ancient earth. I took a step back and shuddered. At this rejection, many fish fell around the angel, all dead and frozen, slapping hard against the cave floor. Then, from the deepest recesses of my consciousness, there came a sound: steel wire hanging high above a field of corn. The lines shivered in the breeze and sang like clockwork sparrows. Metallic spring sprung forth in a curl of light and noise. An electrical pylon, its arms spread wide, so wide it held the whole state to its chest. Transmissions from everywhere and nowhere collected in the still air inside its ribs. It blew a whispered kiss through the heavy bent stalks, through iced cities and rolling foothills. It blew a kiss as loud as the trumpets of revelation, and spoke in a hundred tongues of electric rapture: “The next time you see me, you will be dead. And when I come, you will not be ready…” All of my training, all of my will and wit was for naught in the face of it. And in my mind were two diverging paths, two images in a cracked mirror. One was the face of god, of satan, of bosses and kings, of whips and chains, of a thousand bodies clawing and tearing their way to the top of a pyramid of their own kind. I saw the end of history, a prison of gold bars. I saw an ant on fire under a magnifying glass, carrying this flame back to its colony. In the other I saw a face I thought I had seen before, strong hands held and strong hearts holding fast against the unceasing tide. But this second image was hazy, uncertain. No way to tell what was to come, but at least something was to come. I was not prepared to face this pyramid of corpses on my own. I had yet to contend with a force of this magnitude before, and have yet to still again. So I ran. I ran blindly, avoiding every rocky spire and pitfall as if possessed. I ran until my lungs burned cold and my throat was a sandpaper bellow. I may have run for all time, the ant ever fleeing the flame, were it not for a flickering glow oozing from a bend in the path ahead. I slowed my jog and warily closer to the light. Beyond the turn I came to its source: a small television set, hissing with static, resting atop a vcr. Nearby were stacks of tapes. I heard no chase being given behind me, so I closed my eyes hard and just let myself breathe. Once my chest ceased its convulsions, I picked up one of the tapes at my side. There were no official markings or symbols: not mass produced media, these were home movies. And along the spine of each was a different date, but the same name: Lucy. *** Sound of vcr Some collage of sounds here *** The video I saw on the screen was odd, clearly taken on a camcorder, but its point of view didn’t make any sense, and seemed to shift scenes at will. There were birthdays, static, soccer games, color bars, a lakeshore, hissing, a hundred domestic scenes. Then the video slowed and focused on a single point: a specific space and precise time. And here there was a lone child, 10, maybe 12. She sat alone in her room, the low sun filtering golden through the falling leaves outside. A breeze snuck in through the cracked window and stirred the cotton balls on her bed. She held one hand out in front of her, a tiny brush in her other. Once the dark blue paint had been applied to her nails, she rested her hand on the sill to dry. Static She was in the woods, laughing and kicking at sticks and stones. She was alone, but content. She climbed a wide oak, chipping a bit of her fresh polish on the rugged bark. From the low branch she stood and surveyed her quiet kingdom. Not far from her perch, she saw the cave. She had heard stories about it from others at school, rumors of danger in this cave. She heard that people had gotten lost there, or lost parts of themselves. That there was something within that would eat you alive. She heard these rumors, but didn’t fully believe them. Usually she stayed clear anyway. Just in case. This day, however, she was old enough to know better but still young enough to feel invincible. So she went in. *** This child snuck into the shale chasm and strained to see in the dark. She took a few steps forward and stopped, startled by the echoing of her own footsteps. She could hear her breathing on the air growing shorter, heavier as the cave whispered it back to her. This wasn’t enough to deter our brave little explorer, however. She gripped the strap of her backpack tight to her shoulder and trudged inward, farther away from the circle of daylight that dared stick show its face in the cave. Before long, she heard different sounds ahead. Anonymous low voices, clinking and hissing. She thought about turning back, but wasn’t sure which way back was. The voices and clanking grew louder, and a flicker of light drew her attention. She saw fire spark to life. Glowing embers floated in the dark like tiny red eyes. These eyes, these sounds, she thought, must belong to a great beast with many heads and many eyes, glass knives for fingers, blowing fire in the deep. She stepped on a loose rock during her ingress, the movement of which clicked and clacked down the stone corridor. She froze, and a great circle of light struck her. The beast had her in its horrible sight. She strained to see through the awful beam. She held her hand over her eyes and tried to speak, to apologize to the great creature, to say she was sorry for disturbing its home. But peals of laughter interrupted her. More beams of light flickered in front of her, and she saw that the many heads of this beast were actually attached to tall, lanky bodies–human bodies–leaning awkwardly against the shale in baggy shirts and shorts. The lights weren’t the dread traces of a monstrous eye, but simple flashlights. And the floating embers weren’t red eyes, but lit cigarettes, the kind her uncle smelled like. There were four of them in all: teens who snuck into the cave for a little underage drinking. Though teenagers could be just as fearsome as some beasts, she had learned. She lowered her hands as the laughing died down. One teen boy pointed his ashy smoke at her hands, snorted and spoke some words she didn’t understand yet but would some years later. The kinds of words that curse a person, that haunt their dreams and sink in icy fangs when they’re at their lowest. No, she didn’t understand the words at the time, but she felt their dripping intent. She knocked over one of the half empty beer bottles and fled the cave, leaving only a thin line of tears in her wake. She sat on the uneven rock of the cave’s entrance and kicked her heels against the dirt. She looked down at her fingernails, rich cerulean inexpertly applied like waves whipped up by a storm. She grabbed a piece of loose shale from the ground and chipped at the polish on her left hand until there was nothing left but little scratches. And then she vanished, and this lone figure became two: a mask, and an invisible hand to hold it. *** There were other tapes, too, footage of a first kiss, driving exams, awkward names. College, empty pockets, kaleidoscopic tigers licking their stripes and worms inhaling copious ether. And jobs, so many jobs, so many painful jobs that weakened the back and hands. Breakfast joints, transmission towers, a post office. A letter, an angel, a tower, an engine. A promise, split in half: a face sold for a seat in the boardroom. The last image I saw before the tape jammed in the vcr was a fuzzy lighthouse. Then the cathode ray spat black and white fizzling particles over the cave wall. And in this, I knew clarity. At this time, I knew where Lucy was, who she was, but not yet how to get to her. I thanked the glowing television and ventured beyond it. Fresh air soon tickled my skin, and led me to the mouth of the vault–the cave–and I stepped once more into the cold blue sun. I was surrounded by trees, and all around me was quiet. To my right, a leaf jumped from its branch and made a slow descent to the forest floor. I felt a gust stir my hair from behind my ear. Things here in the land of the real had begun moving again, which meant… I rushed aimlessly through the trees, desperately searching for an opening in the canopy. I needed to see it, I needed to be sure. And sure enough, in time I did see it: the giant hand above was once again resuming its thunderous plummet to the earth. I spun around, hoping someone else would be there, someone older, wiser, maybe, someone who knew what to do, whose job it was to fix this sort of thing. There was no one under the denuded trees but me. That’s when it dawned on me, perhaps much later than it should have. It was my job to fix this sort of thing. I had been called to this middle of nowhere, ohio branch for a reason. The boss wanted me here, and not just to talk about Lucy. There was more. I keenly felt the same pain that lone child did. I felt the looks and the comments and the barely-stifled giggling. I felt the carceral hex of the conjurers of orthodoxy. I felt the box they taped me in. Luckily, tape is temporary, and cardboard soft: it only appears to be a prison if you let it be so. I ripped at the tape, set fire to the box, and came out real and raw and wreathed in black flame. And I felt that I was here to help Lucy do the same. You see, Director, the moral arc of this world doesn’t bend toward anything. History isn’t an arc, or a line, it’s a tapestry of ever expanding silk. And unlike an arc, there is no end to this tapestry. Even if we won here, even if everything went just right, the tapestry weaves on, eons before we were born and millennia after we’re dead. There are a thousand knots and tears and creases all the way down. But this didn’t dissuade me. No, it opened my eyes. All the feats of our past weren’t accomplished by a few great men, ordained by the universe to bend history by hand. It was threads like us that made it happen. Though I may be just one thread among billions, every thread composes the whole, and the more threads that intertwine, the stronger we become. In times like these, we threads must act together, act decisively, to prevent the weave’s destruction. We must hold the things we cherish close, yes, but also smother the flames that singe our edges. No half measures, no hesitation, no waiting. We must offer our hands in love, and offer fists in kind for our jailers. We cannot survive on one of these alone. This, Director, is what I believe is at the core of it all: there can be no love too fierce for ourselves, for each other, and no fury too fierce for our oppressors. No one will come to save us–no one will embrace us–but ourselves. I looked up to the hand in the sky. Though it was now a fist, perhaps it could be opened. I held my hand aloft and called her name. The stone hand in the sky relaxed as it fell, its fingers extended. If you looked at it at just the right angle, we lined up perfectly. I held the falling hand in my hand, gently and sweetly. The cold stone turned to skin, and the missing second came to an end. *** The biting wind and rain of Aisling was no more, replaced by yellow leaves sailing on stiff curls of wind. I saw the cave in front of me, a child sitting at its entrance with tears streaming down her face. I gently called her name and her head rose. She seemed confused, didn’t expect anyone else to be there. But the way her eyes widened told me she recognized me. Somehow she knew who I was, and why I was there. I placed my hand on her head and tousled her hair lightly. I told her I would be right back, and stepped into the cave. I could feel red heat bloom in my face, and my fists clenched into white circles. The adolescents who had teased this child were still children themselves. They had much to learn about the world, about how to be human. I would forgive them this trespass and hope that Lucy would too, some day. Though they were children, sometimes children require instruction, and I was eager to teach. None but those of us within the cave know what was said next, and I will not reveal it here nor anywhere. Needless to say, some important lessons were learned that day. By the time I left the hollow again, I had calmed down. I unclenched my jaw and let out an extended breath. Lucy noticed my posture soften, and she too relaxed. She looked up at me from her spot on the loose shale. WREN: “Are you ready to go home?” She silently wiped the drying tears from her cheek. I took her hand and helped her up. She stood for a moment, gripping my hand tight, then nodded. We walked through the woods quietly. No one else was around today, no hikers, no one walking their dogs. We listened to the whistle of the air fluttering through the sparse leaves and the percussive crunch of sticks breaking under our boots. We eventually came to the end of the woods, beyond which was a narrow gravel road. Lucy released her hand from my grasp and made for the treeline. The dark boughs and branches of the trees overhead leaned and bent around her, pulling away in semicircles. The limbs formed parted stage curtains around her. Under her feet, roots twisted and twined, laying themselves as planks beneath her. An audience waited with baited breath beyond. She turned back at the edge of the sylvan stage one last time. She smiled as she waved goodbye, and walked beyond the wooded theatre into the unknown. I tried to peer beyond the webbed drapes, but all I could see were points of light near the ground, shining my direction. I stepped up to the edge of the stage myself, took a bow, and returned where I belonged. *** I found myself exiting the vault door, once more inside the inverted lighthouse. The hanging ice that had been occupying its ceilings and clinging to its walls had almost entirely melted now, and the oppressive atmosphere was clearing. In the center, the engine had vanished. In its stead was a white rotary phone, and strung around its cradle was a mask of a dead president. I waited for the inevitable haunting ring for a second, a minute, an hour, but nothing came. The room was silent save for the occasional drip of water. There would be no call for me. I had to make one myself. I dialed a familiar number. The line rang only once, and then the call was answered. There was no greeting, however, just a single plaintive line. “You can take the mask off now, Wren. I’m ready to go.” I placed the receiver gingerly back on the cradle. Next up was untangling the mask’s elastic strap from the phone cord. Once freed, I held the plastic face in front of me. A cheap, ugly mask from a halloween store, sunbleached from sitting out too long. I peered through its empty eyes and felt bile rising. I knew in that moment that I could put on the mask. That things would be easier if I did. That I had one last chance to take over the Office. One last chance to be the Boss. One last chance to be at the top of the pyramid. I threw the mask to the wet floor and crushed it underfoot. It made a sickening crunch as I twisted my heel. The fragile mask snapped and broke apart beneath me. In the same instant, I felt a seismic rumble in the earth. The lighthouse shook, and its walls began to crack. I stomped again, and again, and again, just to be sure. And with each stomp, the walls of the lighthouse crumbled further and fell heavy around me, allowing fresh sunlight steal into the chamber. When I finally lifted my foot, the plastic face was nothing more than fragments, loose change. The lighthouse had been reduced to rubble. I was exposed to the wintry weather again, standing in the open air near the shore of lake Erie. I scanned the clouds above for any indication of the falling arm, but there was no trace of it. The town around me, the specter that once haunted this coast, was leveled. Bits of debris blew in the lashes of wind and sleet. Much of the scrap of this place was being pulled and washed away by the advancing tide, as if the lake itself was reclaiming this rancid land. And so the inverted lighthouse was gone, the hand was gone, Aisling was gone, and all that remained was me, alone among waterlogged wreckage and rising slush. Well, not... /episode/index/show/deadletters/id/22283000

DLO 18: HONEYBEE 02/07/2022

DLO 18: HONEYBEE Wren has a chat and descends into the dark. Liz gathers allies for a revolt. Major thanks to the MVPs of this episode: Rae Lundberg as Shadow, Jess Syratt as Liz, and Nathan from the Storage Papers as the Director. (CWs, mild spoilers: fire, death, body horror, distorted voices and faces, static, dripping noises) Transcripts available at somewhereohio.com Apologies for the delay! TRANSCRIPT: *Fizzling Boss tones* *boss tones coagulate into a voice* BOSS: “Because I needed you alive long enough for us to talk.” WREN, barely conscious: “wh-what? Where…” WREN: Drops of frigid water pelted my forehead, stirring me from the astral plane. Above me was a whitewashed ceiling, stone walls curving in a circle like a shackle. I wasn’t restrained, however. I sat upright on crossed legs. Someone had been speaking just then, right? WREN: “Is someone there?” BOSS: “Ah, good, you are awake. I was a tad worried the furball out there hit you too hard.” The curdled voice had to be coming from…somewhere, but it felt like it was all around me, under me, seeping into my hair and nails. The impact of the sheer cold of this place finally hit me as my head stopped spinning. I sat hunched for a moment before responding. WREN: “Boss? I-is that you? How did you–” BOSS: “I live in the wires, creep through static, remember? And your friend out there is about 50% wires, give or take. It’ll be fine once its circuits or whatever they have reboot. But that thing isn’t what I’m interested in. I brought you here to talk. So let’s hop to it.” WREN: “What do you want me to say? I’m sorry for leaving? For trying to help you?” BOSS: “Lucy. I want to talk about Lucy. See, Ever since our phone call, I’ve been…unsettled. Now that I’ve always been the boss, I have near unlimited knowledge of the DLO, of the things around me, but still no sign of Lucy. That bothers me.” I warily stood up and looked around the frozen lighthouse. Long icicles hung from the ceiling–floor? whichever--dripping and freezing once more on the ground. The whole interior was covered in a thin icy sheen. No sign of Conw–er, the boss. I needed to find where this voice was coming from, but I needed time. I’d have to string him along for a bit and hope his confidence would play against him. WREN: “Okay, then. Let’s talk Lucy. But first, there are some things I want to know. I’ve heard about some sort of machine salvaged from the lakebed. What is it?” BOSS: “Might as well indulge the little worker bees in a bit of honey while they can still taste it. Very well, Wren.” As he spoke, I snuck around the perimeter of the dark tower, listening for any changes in directional sound. BOSS: “That machine is what made this place, made me real. It shepherded a new era for this state. Sure a few people lost a job or two, a few houses demolished, a few forests burned down, but it made way for industry, for growth. For potential. You shouldn’t blame this engine for your troubles: it’s people that run it. Without us, it’s just a hunk of junk. But with our hand on the till, we can remake the world. You’re stuck in the old ways, Wren. You’re a dinosaur, flailing in the tar, and I am the good god above, shaking my head. Yes, this little engine can be dangerous, if you can’t handle the power. Kenji couldn’t. Look what happened to him. I could handle it, and here we are. Speaking of power, don’t think I don’t know about the little coup attempt you’re plotting with some of my…former associates. It won’t work. As soon as we’re done here, I’m crushing your little salt and feeding her to the engine. Then it’s back to business.” I should have known he’d know. But just because he knew what was happening didn’t mean he could stop it. If all went well on Liz’s side, it would be many hundreds against one. Those are decent odds in my ledger. I just needed a bit more time. WREN: “So this ‘lucid engine’ really runs on human misery. It carved its way across the midwest, burning through the souls of workers, flattening towns, setting forests ablaze, bringing nightmares to life. But it’s our touch that makes it glow, our will that drives its whips and chains. Is that right? A conduit for economic malice? You know you weren’t always like this. I’ve heard your earlier memos. You were kind, artistic, even funny sometimes, I must grudgingly admit. I trusted you. I want to believe that person is still in you somewhere, trapped among the paperwork and oil. If it is, I intend to find that person, and bring them back. If it is not, I don’t intend to show any mercy.” BOSS: “You sure say a whole hell of a lot and say a whole lot of nothing, huh little bee?” I found no hints to the direction of his voice, but I did discover a narrow staircase winding down to the top of the lighthouse. BOSS: “I believe it’s your turn now, Wren. Where is Lucy?” WREN: “I’ll be honest with you: I don’t know. I encountered her at a waffle house at the end of the world. But she didn’t talk to me.”BOSS: “Well…no, that can’t be right. I was…No. No. NO. You’re not going to play with my mind like he did. Said I wasn’t real. You’re talking to me right now! Real as real gets.” WREN: “You sound unfocused, boss. Tell me this: what’s your full name? How old are you? I’m Wren Crawford, nonbinary claims adjuster born November 1st, 1998 in Illinois. My favorite color is silver, I love driving at night with the windows down, and I hate pineapple. How about you? No easy answer? You think much too literally, Boss. Of course, ‘real’ can mean extant, physically in the world. But it has many other meanings, too. Genuine, authentic. You may be here, but you’re not authentic. You are a fiction.” I had inched my way to the stairs as I spoke. Before I could take the first step, he noticed where I was headed. BOSS: “Whoa, whoa whoa, hold on now, hoss. Sorry to disappoint you, but what you’re looking for ain’t down there. That’s just the DLO’s vault. All you’re gonna find there are dusty old letters. You’ve shown a lot of grit to even get here, Wren, a good deal of stick-to-it-iveness. You’re bright, hardworking, got a keen eye. You shouldn’t waste your life scrounging around in the dark. I’m a compassionate leader, I recognize potential when I see it. So to make your trip worthwhile, I’ve got an offer for you. I could use someone else under my wing. A right hand, so to speak. Someone to watch over the warehouses and offices while I’m away on executive duties. You would have your own office–with a window!--your own assistants, access to all the documents you could want. You could escape the life of the worker bee. You could be the Supervisor, Wren. A damn good one. Wealthy, to boot.” WREN: “In my time, I’ve come to find that wealth acts like a poison. The more concentrated it is in one host, the more dangerous it becomes. But dilute it among many and it’s harmless, or as with a serpent’s venom, a vital part of its own antivenom. It should be the sweet fruits picked from trees we planted ourselves. I don’t want your poison apples.” I stood at the precipice of a yawning mouth to hell. One more step and I could never go back. WREN: “Sorry, Boss, I’m no insect. I am a hawk.” My foot hit the metal stair, and the world above went dark. *** LIZ: “Suuure, just round up some shadows and commit arson, Liz. This is a perfectly normal thing people say all the time, Liz. Well, no time like the present, I guess. Hey, uhhh, you at the desk! What’s your name? *Harsh buzzing and static emanate from the shadow* LIZ: “All right, forget you then. Stapler dude, with the cool glasses. My guy, what are you up to?” *more unwelcoming noise* LIZ: “This isn’t working. How was that other shadow able to talk to me?” SHADOW: “I’m not sure, how can you talk? You’re a shadow, too.” LIZ: “Christ, you’re still here?” SHADOW, gently: “You needed someone to talk to.” LIZ: *pause, sigh* “Sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound so…” SHADOW: “Hostile?” LIZ: “Right. There’s just a lot going on right now. I keep thinking I’ll see her here somewhere. I can almost feel her nearby. But then I turn around and it’s all gone, just a puff of smoke, sifting through my fingers like sand. I just want to be back at our apartment, building a little house in the sims together. Pretending that someday WE could own a house. I need to find her before we get out of here. IF we get out of here.” SHADOW: “And I need to make sure that thing in the middle is taken down.” LIZ: “Well we’ve both got something to do then. I wonder…Do you think that having purpose makes here us…tangible? SHADOW: “Makes about as much sense as anything else that’s happened to me in the last 24 hours.” LIZ: “Ever read any Sartre?” SHADOW: “No.” LIZ: “Me neither. But if his stuff’s anything like Groundhog Day, it’s about how we’re defined by what we do, not who we are. Making the choice to continue in the mouth of the void. We have goals, those goals give us meaning, that meaning gives us solidarity. Err, solidity. SHADOW: “Then all we have to do is remind these people there’s more to the world than this office. Give them something else to live for.” LIZ, speaking to the room: “All right, listen up, folks. You’ve been working, what, Eight? Nine hundred hours? With no break? Do you even know what you’re doing, or why you’re doing it? Look at me, I’m not glued to a desk, grumbling and sneering at everyone trying to be nice to me. I’m free! No boss to tell me what to do. Come on, you can’t tell me you actually like your boss. What’s more American than hating your boss? You in front, yeah I know you think he’s a real pissbaby.” SHADOW, whispering: “I hope you know where this is going, because we’ve got a lot of eyes on us.” LIZ: “Good! I want them to see. There’s got to be some part of you that knows this office is busted, this state is busted. Hell, this whole damn system’s gone busto. You’re all toiling away down here in the dark for someone that doesn’t even know your name. Not to mention the giant column of flesh. That has to be an OSHA violation. And these folders on the floor–serious fire hazard. Do you even get sick leave?” SHADOW: “More are listening. Keep going!” LIZ: “Are we not meant to be free? To see the sun with our own eyes? To be entitled to the spoils of our own labor? Have you all become ants, mindless cogs to be spun, or does some sliver of you yet remain human? Can none of you work up the courage to hold on to that sliver of humanity? Lay down your tools and come with me. Then you’ll find your answer. Maybe you can go home again. Maybe we’ll meet on the other side. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll get to kick the guy who did all this in the teeth. Shadows of the cave unite, you have nothing to lose but your chain letters!” *** WREN: “Wow, did you really come up with all that on the spot?” LIZ: “I may have been taking some poetic license with what happened near the end, but you get the gist.” WREN: “Okay…then what happened?” *** LIZ: Many of the shadows dropped their papers and stamps, littering the floor with office trash, and stood on desks with me. Some shades remained hard at work. They buried their faces in their books. I don’t think those shadows wanted to be helped. I think they were happy being pawns in the DLO’s game. I only hope they’ll find peace some day. I hopped down from the desk to be among the shadows. We gathered on one side of the massive file cabinet and started pushing. It didn’t budge much at first, seeing as it was about 60 feet high. The tower of tissue noticed what we were doing, and sent some dark matter assassins our way. But more and more shades joined our cause, and the wall of drawers started to tip under our collective strength. It fell toward the tower in the center of the room. An enormous tongue shot out from the tower, halting the fall of the cabinets. I shouted for any stragglers to join up with us before it was too late. Then we did what you said to do. The friendly shadow I’d been talking to found a small space heater at one of the abandoned desks. She set it down next to the base of the giant leaning cabinet and switched the heater on. I opened a few of the lower drawers, which spilled their contents onto the floor beside the heater. A big pile of dry paper plus an unsupervised space heater…You can imagine what happened next. And you can imagine the smell, too, as the paper and flesh were licked by the flames. We stood in front of the burning tower for just a minute, outlined in the dark by a ring of righteous flame. And then with our shadowy friends, we left the way we came. Which is to say: through a series of unexpected and inexplicable moves and feelings that I can’t recall. And then we were in the cold. *** WREN: I prowled down deep into the guts of the wretched lighthouse. Each footfall was imbued with growing dread. I descended into the darkness for some time, passing a grim scullery and fetid living quarters, until a dim light and faint roar made their presence known. As I continued, the light and sound grew stronger, and then came the smell: scorched oil and exhaust. Illusory hellfire overwhelmed my senses until at last my boots made contact with the lighthouse floor. The circular room was small, only just wide enough for a small walkway around the lamp in the center. There was a door across the way, so I started to work my way around the lens. But I quickly realized that in the center of this lighthouse was not a light. Instead, there was a horrific chunk of alien steel, like quicksilver in one corner and immovable iron cubes in another. It had pipes running up and down its sides, spouting haze into the tiny chamber. This is what had been making the dizzying light and sound. I felt a pit open in my stomach at the moment of recognition. I was terrified and thrilled in equal measure. I, much like Conway, had been unwittingly trailing this engine. This room felt more like a shrine than a beacon, a place of worship for a dead metal messiah. White fire burbled into the air, and the rattling hum of the engine grew as I approached. I was drawn to run my fingers along its cool surface, but I restrained myself, and recalled what had happened to the others who came in contact with the engine. I knew not where it came from and probably never would, so I looked at rather teleologically. I whispered to myself: “What does this thing DO? What is its purpose?” And I received an unexpected answer. BOSS: “It can make your dreams come to life.” I crept around the edge of the machine to confirm my horrible suspicion. This is indeed where his voice had been coming from, but not in the way I expected. On the other side of this nightmare device was a face–Conway’s face–stretched across its surface beyond the point of possibility. It spanned maybe three feet across, skin and metal fused and tangled, a simulacrum of a sick rubber mask pulled taut. The large eyes were dull and hazy, roving aimlessly. The distended mouth hung open, through which I could see the burning fire within. My autonomic nervous system kicked in, and unfortunately my fight and flight instincts often exert equal and opposite force, leaving me frozen in place. I couldn’t move, and could barely make a noise. WREN: “C-conway…is that?” I whispered through my pale lips. The cloudy eyes rolled without clear direction, angrily searching for the source of my voice. The engine rumbled and spit embers, and then the mouth of the Conway mask moved slowly, with some effort. BOSS, stuttering and glitching: “Please, call me Boss. I’m your superior after all. Unless you’re quitting now.” WREN: “I already…quit. Boss, you…you’re not…this isn’t right. This isn’t…you.” BOSS: “Of course it’s me. I am fire. I am steel. I am the Boss.” WREN: “You weren’t always like this. Do you remember playing in the woods? Studying art?” The voice using his face like a puppet grew harsher, more mechanical. BOSS: “Your conjecture interests me not, insect. I am the standard. I am the control. I am the Boss.” WREN: “I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’m not stopping now. I’m going into the vault, and I’m going to bring you back with me. The real you. Just keep…breathing, if that’s a thing you still do. It’s not over yet.” I tore my eyes away from the shining abyss and passed through the door across from the engine. As it closed behind me, the sound and heat from the machine dissipated, and I was once again on my own in a dark, quiet cave. I could hear water drip from stalagmites onto the damp stone ground. My phone had just enough battery left to cast its light across the rock, revealing hundreds of boxes and bags, all stuffed to the brim with letters, packages, objects. A chef’s knife, a game cartridge, cassettes unspooling their magnetic tape through dirty puddles. All things forgotten but not lost. I was finally in the Vault of the Dead Letter Office of Aisling, Ohio. *** CONWAY: “Yeah, good to meet you. *ow* Strong handshake you got there. So this is still my first week, what did he say I should do with the ones that uhh fit the criteria?” DIRECTOR: “The Boss says to make a note of it, send the memo to your supervisor, and place the letter or object in the shaft to the vault.” CONWAY: “Right. Now pardon me if this sounds a little funny, but who is my supervisor? Where’s this vault?” DIRECTOR: “At present, you don’t need to know any of that. Just follow the steps exactly as prescribed.” CONWAY: “Aw hell, you’re the ones giving me health insurance, I’m not dumb enough to question that. So you got it, sir.” DIRECTOR: “Good to hear. You know how to keep a secret, right? Because at this agency, we value our privacy. We don’t need your average citizens finding out what we do. So this vault is where we send all evidence that we, and the things we handle, exist. You don’t want to go in there. Could be dangerous. It’s best that it’s forgotten. You understand? CONWAY: “Not really, but I promise I won’t go in there. Wherever ‘there’ is.” DIRECTOR: “Oh and one more thing: you like baseball, Mr. Conway?” CONWAY: “Sure, well enough. And please, call me–” *STATIC* CREDITS Hey everybody, it’s your host here with just a few brief announcements and shoutouts. So this is the penultimate episode. The next episode will be out soon and that will be the finale of the series, or at least the series as it exists now. I’m sure I’ll make more at some point, but it’s not going to be these characters, it’s not going to be this story, it’s going to be a whole different thing. So I hope you still enjoy it and I will certainly enjoy my break. I want to thank everybody who’s listened so far, or left reviews or subscribed or shared the show. It really helps and it means the world to me. And without further, I’d love to give a shoutout to our lovely patrons: Carriers Alien Octopus, BertBert, Feather, Flo, and Jessica. Receiving Clerks Argent Lune, Elena, Ezra, Gadz, Jennifer, Kidcha, Spicy Nigel, Patricia, Paul, and Wheezy and Beaker. /episode/index/show/deadletters/id/22047899

Merch Update 01/22/2022

DLO 17: MIMIC 01/03/2022

BONUS: BLOOM 12/19/2021

DLO 16: METAMORPHOSIS 12/06/2021

BONUS: Nine to Midnight 10/29/2021

DLO 15: KISS ME SON OF GOD 09/20/2021

DLO 14: CLUES/THE CAVE 08/30/2021

DLO 13: PROJECTION 08/09/2021

DLO 12: EARWORM/THE LAST VIDEO STORE 07/19/2021

DLO 11: TAMAGOTCHI/THE DEAD MALL 06/28/2021

DLO 10: SONG BIRD 06/07/2021

DLO 10: SONG BIRD Previously... Receiving Clerk Conway was asked to look into an angel statue and a missing mail carrier named Kenji on behalf of the Dead Letter Office. During the investigation, Conway encountered a strange lost fisherman and some odd postcards with unsettling connections to his past. After finding Kenji's body holding a phone, Conway called the phone number on one of the postcard and received some disturbing information: he couldn't recall his own last name, and realized he was being set up. And what did the lost fisherman mean when he said Conway isn't real? At least not yet? Now, a new face has arrived at the DLO to sort through the mess Conway left behind: claims adjuster Wren is on the case. On their first day at the office, karaoke night at a dive bar turns weird and Conway finds himself somewhere he shouldn't be. Some lyrics from Once in a Lifetime by Talking Heads "Fool" originally by Frankie Cosmos (CWs--mild spoilers: birds, bugs, brief blood, alcohol, smoking, brief harassment, very mild body horror, some strong language, romance?) TRANSCRIPT: CONWAY ON TAPE:...gonna pick up the phone and dial this number. WREN: Now you’ve heard everything I have. Conway’s vanished, leaving only a trail of disconnected audio memos for me to follow. His last known location was here, at the Dead Letter Office of ******* Ohio. He was supposedly asked to investigate a large package in some other post office, but the DLO has no record of this request, and no idea where he went. Hello, I’m--wait, am I supposed to introduce myself, or is this more of a formal...Okay. Then let’s start at the beginning, where I come in. I want to be as thorough as possible. No loose ends. I had just hung up a bird feeder on the front porch. I like watching all the little birds stop by. The robins, the jays, the sparrows, their colorful plumage and vibrant songs. They take turns plucking seeds out of the holes in the cylinder and sing their small hearts out. It was an afternoon, still a little chilly. Summer hadn’t quite hit full swing. A couple of Carolina Finches were pecking at the small bugs and shells left by their brethren on the concrete. The birds weren’t aware of the hawk landing in the tree behind them. They’re not aware of the movements of empires, the fluctuations of markets that destroy their homes. They only see what’s in front of them: the sky to the ground, the egg to the dirt, is now. A moment later and the raptor descended on the surprised prey in a flurry of chirps and flaps. The small birds scattered in a panic, one slammed into the window then took off and the other found itself tangled in the freshly torn mesh on my screen door. Having missed its chance, the hawk turned, soaring far out over the houses down the block. None of these birds would be lunch that day. This was a relief. I didn’t want to see my visitors get eaten. I mean, I eat chicken already, it’s not all that different, but I still feel bad for the little birds. I figure if I were an animal, I’d be like them, picking at seeds and singing my little song. Noteworthy to those paying attention, but a background detail--a bit player in the grand scene--to others. Realistically, though, I could just as easily be a hawk. Hungry, waiting patiently on the sidelines for my chance, disliked by most. Reaching out and missing. Chronic bad luck. I heard my phone buzz on the coffee table, but I had to get this finch out of my screen first. I opened the heavy door and found the thing flapping and screeching, its foot caught in the screen. I gently unwrapped the fabric from its leg, despite its vociferous protestations, and it burst free, tearing through the air to join its friends on the telephone wire. I went back in and answered the call. It was the DLO. I was being transferred to some nowhere post in Ohio. Supposedly a temporary assignment, though I guess they all are in the long run. There was a case there that needed an expert’s opinion. They always manage to have the worst timing. Yes, if I were an animal, I’d probably be the scrappy songbird. Or maybe the hawk. Or maybe I’m just the beetle lodged in the finch’s beak, surrounded by a vast unknowable world, an ocean of interconnected things and events totally beyond my comprehension, then summarily devoured without a second thought. *Intro music* WREN: Hello, I’m Wren, claims adjuster for the Dead Letter Office. I’m here to determine if Conway disappeared on the job, and to judge if the DLO is required to make an insurance payout to his next of kin. I’ll be examining his audio memos and the dead mail backlog in his inbox for any clues as to his whereabouts. The following audio recording will serve as evidence for his case. Public release of this or any other evidence is strictly prohibited. Some names and facts have been censored for the protection of the office. Now in cases like this, it’s important to take in more than just the events. I need a feel for the atmosphere, the scene, the anxieties. I need to understand not only where Conway is but how he is. And how he got there. What was ahead of him in his work pile may have influenced what was in front of him: the past outlines the future, and the future colors the past. So with this simple understanding that what’s to come is sometimes the driver of what was in mind, let’s begin with the next piece in Conway’s backlog. Dead Letter 17216. This was found on a review website, written by a civilian named Mel. An unconventional entry to be sure, fitting for an unconventional case. She wrote the following: MEL: "And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife. And you may ask yourself, "Well... how did I get here?" Friday night, dive bar on the north side of town. Easy to miss from the outside, unmistakable inside. Like nearly every friday, I pushed through the swinging door and was enveloped in neon light and pulsating music. I was cleansed of my stress by giving in to song, to cheering along and dancing arm in arm, to reunions and meetups. Friday is karaoke night at the Song Bird, the premier queer dive and diy venue in town. Stickers for a thousand defunct bands with names like “Two Dog Folly” and “Slumgrinder” cover the walls and pillars. Even if all they did was play a couple house shows in the fall of 2013 before disbanding, their legacy will live on here, until it’s composted in the churn of revolving vinyl and covered by hopeful new names and faces sprouting forth from the paper loam. Local artists hang their weird paintings up for sale, and greasy food simmers in the kitchen in the back. On karaoke night at the Bird, I’m alive. It’s the one time each week I get to pretend there’s something more to my boring life, more to me, than the usual routine. To reach out for something, anything beyond ordinary. Or to drop the poetic language for a while, I like to blow off steam after work by singing really loud at strangers. I came in that friday, and a woman I’d seen a few times before was sitting in the last booth. She had been coming to the Bird for a few weeks, but never met up with anyone, never sang, never even said hello as far as I could tell. She would quietly watch people sing and pick at the duct tape on the peeling plastic booth before leaving without a word. What was her deal? She had jet black hair, the kind that’s almost blue or green in this light or that. Big dark eyes. Always wearing a black choker with a little pendant on it. I assumed the whole mysterious silent thing was intentional, part of her vibe. So on this sweltering august evening, I was going to find out exactly what her deal was, and maybe finally have something interesting in my life. It was slow at the Song Bird that night despite the weather. The bar was only half-full by 11. I had just finished my second song, and saw the woman in black head out the back door where the smokers congregate to shoot shit and blow smoke. I stepped off stage and went out for a smoke, too. And there she was, looking up at the moon and taking in the hot summer air. Someone else was under the awning, letting out a plume of vapor into the sky. The woman in black turned my way. Her hair shimmered under the tangerine light as she moved. I locked eyes with her, but her gaze was intense, her eyes absorbing all light and thought. I hesitated. Her attention was almost too much. MEL: “Smoke?” I managed to spit out as I fished for the gold pack in my bag. She gently nodded. I told her I’d seen her a few weeks in a row now, but I never heard her sing. She pursed her lips, and spoke softly. AVERY: “I don’t really like being on stage like that. I’m just here to listen.” I had an eerie feeling I’d heard her voice before, but I couldn’t place it. Did I actually know her and I just couldn’t remember it? Because God, that would be embarrassing. MEL: “You sound so familiar. Do you know Jackie, maybe?”She said she gets that a lot, and the corner of her mouth inched upward into a slight smile. I finally grabbed hold of my pack. I pulled out a cigarette and lit it, inhaling deeply. I grabbed another and held it between my fingers, offering it out in her direction. A lock of her hair fell onto her cheek as she leaned forward. She swept the dark strand back behind her ear, where it hung just partway down her neck below dangling silver earrings. Her parted lips touched the cigarette. I was about to let go and offer the lighter when her teeth clamped down, snapping the cigarette neatly in half. She tilted her head back, half of the thing still in her mouth, her form illuminated by the incandescent glow above. She swallowed it, then looked back at me. The half-eaten cigarette fell from my limp hand. My mouth was hanging open, my own cigarette stuck to my lip and smouldering. I gawked at her for a moment, just totally stunned. The woman behind me tucked her vape into her pocket and hurried inside. A section of ash that had been building up fell, and I realized I’d been holding my breath. I let it all out at once with a cough. I held the pack out to her with a shaky hand. MEL: “Okay, uhhm do you want another?” I wasn’t sure if I was joking. She held up her hand politely and shook her head, as if she was declining an hors d'oeuvre, and not like she had just eaten a cigarette out of my hand. I took another drag, and then stomped it out under my boot. I was feeling a little light headed. She was a little bit taller than me, in a black skirt with matching tights and collared shirt. I asked her name. She said Avery. I opened the door for us to head back in. MEL: “Well, Avery, I’m Mel. I’d love to hear you sing some time.” I smiled and gave her the awkward finger guns I do when I’m nervous, then turned to go back inside. The dizzy purple stage lights and sneering guitars dazed me as I entered, and also conveniently masked the look on my red face. I heard a rush of air, peered back through the closing door, and she was gone. Next week a group of friends and I walked to the Song Bird. I was fidgeting with my lighter in my jacket pocket the whole way. I was secretly hoping to see Avery there again, despite what had happened last time. It was a strange first impression, sure, but a strong one. When we got there, she was in her usual spot, cool and collected. I tried to play it cool, too. I nodded and waved as we walked by, my lighter tucked between my thumb and palm. Her eyes intently followed the shining metal as it moved. Then she blinked hard a few times and gave a brief wave back. I asked her if she was going to sing tonight. She looked down at the table and tucked her hair behind her ear. She ran a fingertip along her neck and gave some noncommittal answer. I told her she could join us any time, if she wanted to. A few drinks and a few songs in, the bar was pretty packed. I pushed my way through the crowd at the counter to get a refresher when I saw two men near Avery in my periphs. One was resting against the table and pointing at her necklace. She looked uncomfortable. I took a sip of my new drink, slammed a few dollars on the bar, and jostled through the dancing throng in her direction. The guy pressed one hand on the table and leaned over her. He reached for the black ribbon around her neck with his other hand. She physically recoiled, but he didn’t move. I shoved my way through the crowd and yelled over the tone-deaf crooner on stage. MEL: “Leave her the fuck alone!” The men looked up with a start, then chuckled when they saw me, small, alone. I glanced toward the bartender. He understood. He slowly made his way out from behind the bar and toward the table. The guy hassling Avery held his hands up. The two of them scoffed and slurred under their breath as they left through the swinging door. MEL: “God, Sorry Avery,” I spoke loudly over the woozy atmosphere. I asked her to sit with us. She didn’t seem to be listening. Instead, she furrowed her brow and her eyes lit up. She rose, then swung the door open and stepped out. I could see the two jerks loitering under the chalky streetlight. The door swung back, and I could see her approaching them. A shorter swing outward and they had some kind of twisted up look on their faces, but I could only see the back of Avery’s head. As the door did its final bow and closed, they were running, screaming. I swore I saw streaks of red running down their faces. But again, a few drinks in and a few songs in, so... Then in stepped Avery, calmly adjusting her choker and dusting off her skirt. She gave me a nod and followed me to where my friends were sitting. I introduced her to the crew. When she spoke, one of my karaoke pal--Sam--gave me a weird side-eye. I shrugged it off. Avery’s chill, I thought, they’ll figure it out. She’s a little eccentric, maybe, but cool. She’s got her own thing going. Kind of jealous, honestly. I don’t think I have a really distinct vibe or unique look, but Avery certainly did. I wanted to be like that, to be like her. Or was it be with her. I don’t know. Samantha was looking at me as I stared off into the projector. They thought I’d said something, swore they heard my voice. Sam asked Avery what she does. Sam, you angel, you knew I was desperate to learn more about our mystery woman. AVERY: “Oh I uh...collect things. I fly pretty often, too.” Ah, a trust fund kid. I should have known. You don’t usually stay that effortlessly hot working the graveyard at Wendy’s. Before I could learn much more, it was my turn at the mic. Avery stopped me for a second. As I stood up, her nimble fingers pulled some unseen fuzz out of my hair. I tried to thank her but my throat went dry for some reason. And then I was up on stage, yelling about yearning or anarchy depending on the night, and my friends were on their feet, mingling and swaying. Avery was still sitting among the empty chairs. She was watching me, bathed in swirling dots of light, now pink, now blue. Her lips were moving slightly along with the lyrics. I shut my eyes and belted out a chorus. When I looked into the crowd again, Avery was gone. Afterwards, my friends said she had to go. Early morning. Bummer. Next week, the booth at the back was empty. I gotta be honest, I was disappointed, but not too surprised. Nothing interesting ever happens to me. She was too good for me, anyway. She’s probably out doing something cool, maybe with a boyfriend. Another work week slurry slipped by, and we checked into the Song Bird again. I hit the notes, but my heart wasn’t really in it. When you’re doing karaoke, heart’s what matters. No one’s here for a concert, they want to sing along to the fun songs they know. If you get up and do some jokey track or esoteric stuff, everyone’s gonna think you’re a jackass. You have to be sincere. And wow did I turn achingly sincere when I saw Avery filter through the crowd mid-Blondie song. She stood and hopped back and forth among the rippling crowd and vivid afterglow. I pointed to Avery as I recited the lyrics, and she beamed and turned a little red. It didn’t last, though. She winced, and her fingertips felt for the ribbon on her neck. She darted out back. I pulled Jackie on stage and handed off the mic. I trailed after her. I didn’t want her to slip away again. I pushed through the back door. The air was heavy and hot on my skin. I asked if she was okay. She was facing away from me under the awning. Around us, the city was busy with late summer reverie. I heard firecrackers somewhere a couple blocks away, and sickly houses lining the road overflowed with rancid frat energy. AVERY: “I just...I don’t know why I came back. I shouldn’t be here. YOU shouldn’t be here, with me.” I started to ask why, but she didn’t look like she wanted to answer. She just studied the gravel under feet and her hand went instinctively to her neck. MEL: “Whatever it is, it’s fine. I just shouted bad french at a room full of strangers. Do I look like I have shame? It doesn’t matter if you’ve got a bunch of dirty money or a boyfriend or whatever, I’m not here for that.” I gently took her arm. Her skin was a little clammy despite the heat, but she didn’t withdraw. MEL: “Let’s go. I think it’s just about your turn...if you’re comfortable.” I didn’t want to pressure her, but I figured it may do her some good, help her break out of her shell. She sighed. Her shoulders sank. She kicked a few pebbles near her feet. AVERY: “Okay, one song.” I led her by the arm back into the bar. I gave her a small card and pen in case she really did want to request a song. We sat together quietly for a while, me throwing back my fizzy drink and her slowly dipping her head down to take tiny sips at her dark concoction. Eventually, I saw her covertly write something on the card and sneak off to deliver it to the host. Samantha whispered something to me when Avery was out of ear shot. Sam had apparently just figured something out. They saw Avery at Queen of Cups a couple months ago and thought she sounded just like this other girl. Some asshole who always did like 7 minute songs there. Hadn’t seen her in a while though. Then they said something that made me uneasy. They said that Avery sounded just like me now, but...quieter. I didn’t quite understand, or didn’t want to. I thought she sounded weirdly familiar, but really? Me? No way. Jackie leaned over Sam’s shoulder, and confirmed it. I stared at the small glass in my hand, or rather through the glass, through the smudged tile floor, through the concrete foundation laid sometime in 1996, through the dirt and the fossilized skeletons of extinct things slowly rotting into fuel for our own extinction, through the earth’s burning anxious core, and stopped just short of actual introspection. They shut up when Avery made her way back and drank the dregs of her cocktail. I bought her next drink. The hazy dayglo hands of time crawled on drunk toward the inevitable cursed sunrise, until I heard the host announce the next singer. It was Avery. She looked like she didn’t expect to actually have to sing. I told her I’d do it for her if she felt like backing out, but instead, she asked me to hold her drink and hopped on stage. Avery stood awkwardly behind the microphone. The drum machine kicked in, the speakers rattling the bottles around the bar with every quaking bass and twinkling cymbal. She held onto the mic stand, her feet close together. Then came the seismic synth, bubbling up from some deep unknown. She swayed gently along to the music, her black skirt sweeping site to side. The lyrics came up on the backdrop. She took a deep breath on the last rest and pulled the mic close to her mouth. Too close. It bumped into her chin, and feedback squealed through the bar.... /episode/index/show/deadletters/id/19312853

DLO 9: THREE OMENS/MAN OF CONSTANT SORROW 04/19/2021

DLO 8: HUNTED/HAUNTED 04/05/2021

DLO 7: DANSE MACABRE/IT'S AN ANGEL, CONWAY 03/22/2021

DLO 6: GONE FISHING/MISSING 03/08/2021

DLO 5: THE GREAT BLACK SWAMP 02/22/2021

DLO 4: HEARTS AGLOW/SAVIOR 02/01/2021

DLO 3: HOLES/THE KING HAS LEFT THE BUILDING 01/18/2021

DLO 2: SECRET INGREDIENT/SECRET ADMIRER 01/04/2021

DLO 1: BAD NEIGHBOR/RE:FURBISH 12/23/2020

the Dead Letter Office of Somewhere, Ohio

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