Intercom |Phone ringing in medium sized room| Mark H.: Been thinking about what you asked. That case haunts me. Still wish I'd listened to you and never done that story. But water and bridges, right? The last one I got from him had a P.O. Box return address somewhere in bumfuck Kentucky. Any idea what he could be doing down there? |inaudible blast of radio noise| Dr. Sergie Bruknenko: Have any of you seen the news today? Sure, media is a soporific feast proffered to the ready masses but today is a signifier. Yesterday's outre event is today's exercise in mediocrity. |inaudible blast of radio noise| |owl| |Theme Music| |Harrowing Drone| |Creepy Welsh Girl| Jimmy Curtains: Sean, allow me to begin with an apology. As you've no doubt suspected, I've not been well and I'm forced to send this account to you via audio. I feel absolutely dreadful having to resort to such an impersonal mode of communication. As you know, I fancy a quill. I am uncertain however imagine I never told you about that brief time I worked as a courier. This would have been in the late 90s, if memory serves. Decades ago and a few years prior to the birth of our spurious business relationship and before the launch of that now notorious enterprise that quickly sent our shared reputations down a spiraling descent, begins this tale. I had encountered an acquaintance one day who introduced me to a courier service presently hiring. Let me just say that a few short months into this gig, I began to rack up some interesting interactions whilst bringing parcels to and fro. In my mind, I refer to these as "incidents" and nothing more. I would like to tell you about one, if you'll allow me. Not the first time I'd picked something up from this questionable operation, I'd become quite friendly with some of the staff. Bert, who appeared at first to be the only one in on this day, hopped down from his forklift when he saw me approach. This hopping motion caused his tragically distended belly to jiggle beneath the olive polo. "How're ya doing, buddy?" he bellowed. "Fine, Bert. Just fine. Yer self?" "Gettin' by. Gettin' by," barked Bert. He motioned me over toward the back office and I followed. At this point I could see sinowy shadows move in a swaying motion beneath the sick, flourescent bulb. I didn't comment. You see, Sean, I had become accustomed to variance in this new job. "Wouldn't let me bring it to the front, yesterday." Bert stopped in front of the back office door and knocked on the crudely painted particle board. Then, Bert looked back at me. "I asked him, ya know." The door opened and there stood Stan. A sour musk emanated from him. The kinda stink you get off a fat man on a bender. Only Stan wasn't fat. Quite the opposite, Stan was scrawny on a good day and today wasn't good. He wavered a bit as well and seemed like perhaps he'd dropped some pounds since I'd last seen'em. I'd say he looked a bit green or jaundiced but I assume it was that regrettable flourescent. "Hiya, Stan!" I attempted enthusiasm, though I presume it came off forced. "Hey..." Stan wheezed. He turned away from us and weakly bent over to retrieve something. His polo shirt rode up a bit and I swear as lawd's my witness his skin seemed to glisten. Stan returned with a box. The package itself was nondescript except that it was a perfect cube. Otherwise it was the standard cardboard most items are encased in for delivery purposes. I handed my clipboard over to him and he passed me the box. As Stan scribbled his John Hancock I noticed the box was unusually cold. Not because this was autumn or due to the perpetual chill these warehouse back offices seem to horde; the box seemed to foment a freeze. "Jesus H Christ, Stan. What the hell's in here?" Stan stared at me with those sunken eyes and slowly shook his head. Well, old friend, I am sorry. I know you are supposed to tell a story closer to the end but I thought this might be important. Perhaps it is. The address Stan gave me was way out in the West End and I found the neighborhood without too much difficulty. By this stage in my courier career, I could manhandle a paper map with the best of them. I parked the station wagon on the side of the suburban road because the house lay at the bottom of a hill and the driveway was daunting. The station wagon was an old Toyota and I was somewhat skeptical of its ability to scale a steep terrain. There were no cars in the driveway which immediately struck me as a lost cause but I had to try. I marched my ass down that steep gravel, over the flag stones and on to the porch. There was this preternatural stillness in the neighborhood; no barking dogs, no bird calls. Complete silence. The house was a run down split level, with the basement windows exposed towards the back. Cheap beige siding riddled with that noxious green mold and mildew you see in these climates clung to the exterior. Not a power washer in sight. Next to the dilapidated screen door with its tattered screen, was a water damaged paper note under one of those intercom speakers that were all the rage back then. The ink had run after gawd knows how many brutal rains but I could make out, "Use rear intercom" so I made my way off the porch. Who am I to question such clear directions? Sean, I'm compelled to tell you a couple of things before I speak of what I found out back. The first noteworthy point was that all the windows, and I mean any glass no matter how small, was covered from the inside with yellowing newsprint. The other significant point was there was an old cuddy cabin boat at the end of that weed infested driveway. Admittedly, it was covered with a tarp, but I could see the barnacled bottom on the decaying trailer with its tires flat and cracked. This was the kinda lower middle class luxury you often see lingering in the West End. But I don't have to explain that to you, Sean. Around back wasn't any rosier: Wild, unkempt yard complete with derelict swingset and upturned plastic tricycle complemented the heap of debris under a high rotting deck. Now, this was a nice autumn day. 70 degree Fahrenheit or 21 degrees if you live anywhere else in the world and no breeze. That box hadn't gotten any warmer and was beginning to numb my fingers so I set it down. I stretched my back a bit and noticed the two intercoms next to the utility box. They were identical and gave no indication of preference or function neither were any instructions left like in the front. Instinctually, I went for the one on the right. Upon pushing the button, I was hit abruptly with an eruption of hideous static which seemed to incubate a mournful cacophony of wails, screams and gurggly sounds. I stepped back, stunned. The intercom on the left blasted, "Use this intercom." without affect. Not being one to cause trouble, I pressed the button on the left one and stated, "Delivery?" "Box." This puzzled me. Were they referring to the box I had brought or to some other cubic entity? Jutting from the dusty ground was a basement window below the intercoms. As with the other windows, the view was obscured by newsprint however the newspaper here was WET. Additionally, the paper had come loose at a corner and revealed, only by 3 inches or so, an interior. Sean, it is at this point my memory clouds. I do enjoy the mental calm of middle age at present but am not impressed with the general integrity of my memories, to be perfectly blunt. That gap was a deep and penetrating BLACK. I remember it seemed LIQUID. As well, the image my mind brings forth is one of a deep and black depth in that basement as if the entirety of the space below was filled with dark water. Had it been flooded in some forgotten torrent? The occasionaly thin line of bubbles rose from far below. I recall thinking that this section of the house must have been converted into some kind of aquatic environment and puzzled over how one could achieve such a feat. "Box." This secondary burst rattled me and began to look around frantically. Previously, I'd been squarely focused on the amount of rubbish and cardboard piled chaotically under the deck. On second survey, I noticed it. The sharp and shiny black corners jutted out at uncomfortable angles just above the top railing. It appeared to be a large black cube. I was not able to make out much more from the ground except that I could see now that buried behind and beneath the old sonar and scuba gear was some large piping which seemed to begin just below the deck floor and curve into the lower floor of the house. I daresay a sluice or leet and yet, appeared entirely undamaged. Unlike the house. How the hell was I supposed to know this was the right box, Sean? Now, I steeled myself and picked up the package. It was still freezing, perhaps even colder now and I swear I could smell a hint of stale cotton candy coming off it. I needed to get this thing done. If you can recollect, I didn't have much time in those days. Time is money in the logistics profession. The first step groaned under my weight and I wasn't so big back then. An absolute waif, if you recall, Sean. The second step actually cracked a bit and I thought momentarily that it might give. The stairs were steep and clearly this wood had never been treated. I'd say there were about 15 or so steps. The 8th one did split and I nearly fell, just catching myself on the rail and acquiring a nasty splinter as reward. In addition to the sudden terror of possibly falling to injury, I was struggling with the package itself. Whatever it contained was prone to sloshing around inside. Like there must be liquid but also something within the liquid. Something alive. On the deck, the black box was enormous. Much bigger than I reckoned from the ground, it also had a brilliant shine to it. A circular hatch with a small handle adorned the top. It had a numeric keyboard with dark green buttons. A sacremento hue, more or less. "3-1-1-2-0-1-1" burst the voice again from a new intercom. This deck intercom was oddly placed on the top rail nearest the house, sitting on a 2x4 as if the wiring must go through the inside of the lumber. I walked over to the railing, "What?" "3-1-1-2-0-1-1" It dawned on me slowly that this must be a combination for the black box. I scrambled for my pen and wrote the digits as quickly as I could on the back of my left hand. I spun on the ball of my left foot and returned to the black box. Feverishly hammering in the numbers, I could feel something spasm in the package as if a new enthusiasm had jolted. Things were moving inside the black box as well; mechanical things. Gears could be heard reverberating within the dark cube and clanging sounds punctuated these. A final "Crunch" and the latch unlocked. I opened the black box. The inside was as smooth and shiny as the outside: featureless would be accurate. I placed that damned freezing package inside. "Close." barked the intercom. "Impatient cunt," I released in a lilting whisper. I slammed the hatch down and another "crunch" confirmed it latched again. Now, Sean, before I lay out all the details of what happened next I feel it my solemn duty to tell you what has been on my mind of late. That combination. You see, I took a lot of notes back then. Had literary aspirations and whatnot. I still have those numbers. Now, I know you're thinking, "So what?" and you'd be well within the parameters of reason to think that. They always bothered me but only recently have I looked at them again. I am well aware of the probability that this is likely coincidence but strongly feel it warrants mention. 3112011 could be a date. It might be March, 11th 2011. Which is the date of a tsunami in Japan. Also of interest is thatthe surviving locals reported strange sea creatures washed up. But, Sean. This was 20 years ago. A fabulous flushing sound rang out from the black box. It sounded like a commode in a deep cavern and beneath the deck an unsettling "FLAPPY" sound spiraled downward. Like fins violently hitting the side of an empty silo. Well, it is time for me to confess Sean. I had to carry around that clipboard on these runs and the company required we obtain a signature in order to be compensated. I forged this one. Sadly, I didn't record the name and haven't been able to locate that neighborhood even after half a day on Google Maps. I did notice a faint cotton candy smell when I got back in the car and that it was cooler inside. I was never asked to return to this address. True story. |Answering machine noises, tape rewinding| DI Stephen Chisholm: Just back from looking into the incident at Cardiff. Sadly, wasn't able to locate a single individual involved. Poked around the Barry Docks a bit. rumor of a whisper that a gent fiiting Jimmy's description bribed a man by the name of The Mad Dane to take him to Norway Something strange though, Mark. You wouldn't happened to have been in the UK last week? Forgive me for asking. It's just that... Found myself in a pub during my Welsh visit. Swore I saw you crossing the street opposite the pub. Ha! Nothing! Perhaps you've a doppelganger! Answering Machine: The Machine is on. 19 minutes to record. The Patient Girl: I dreamt of nothing, just like you said I would. But the thing about danger, Jimmy, is it sneaks up on you. There's no net at the bootom of this free fall, Jim. But something IS waiting for you. Patiently, I might add: IN. NO. HURRY. Time, as they say, is on our side and you cannot understand salvation until it swallows you. How's your orbital speed, Jimmy? |Creative Commons license and deliverypodcast.com direction|