DLO 5: THE GREAT BLACK SWAMP

02/22/21 • 22 min

the Dead Letter Office of Somewhere, Ohio

Conway receives a water-logged manuscript from a midwestern monster hunter of questionable character.

(CWs: mild drug use--cannabis, fire,)

TRANSCRIPTS:

CONWAY: This is Conway, receiving clerk for the Dead Letter Office of ***** Ohio, processing the national dead mail backlog. The following audio recording will serve as an internal memo strictly for archival purposes and should be considered confidential. Need I remind anyone: public release of this or any confidential material from the DLO is a felony. Some names and places have been censored for the protection of the public.

Dead Letter 10609, a manuscript for some kook’s autobiography or memoir, sent to a less than reputable publishing company that shut its doors years back. It was flagged for inspection before it could be delivered due to some unknown fluid leaking from the package. Inside the package was the previously mention manuscript and a broken test tube. The most pertinent excerpts from what remains of the water-logged manuscript read as follows.

NARRATOR: It started, as so many terrible things do, in rural Ohio. You drive out deep into the flat midwest farmland, past the intersection of McCutcheon and 199, down narrow roads covered in gravel and framed by a split sea of cornstalks. You take the turn onto Holcomb road, and one way or another you’ll eventually hit Holcomb Woods--regardless of which way you’re going. Holcomb road cuts a straight line through the foliage. You can see one end from the other, given clear enough conditions.

Every kid in the area’s heard of Holcomb woods. The legend varies from school to school, vivid details emerging when the tale’s in the hands of a particularly clever storyteller, but some commonalities emerge: a vehicle, an accident, a tree, and some ghostly headlights. Some say it was a bus full of kids and a mad driver, others whisper of intoxicated teens. No matter the details, the story ends with a warning--or dare, depending on who is listening--drive down Holcomb road at night and you’ll come upon the passage through the dense trees. Before you pass under the arced branches, you’ll see a pair of headlights coming at you from the opposite direction. You can try to swerve out of the way, but they’ll pass right through you, then disappear. Some say you can still see the driver’s face in one of the trunks if the moon’s angle is just right.

Growing up, I wanted to work with animals. I was fascinated with animal behavior, with their taxonomies and eccentricities. I planned to go to the nearby state university after high school, study biology, zoology, whatever it took to get my dream job. That was until three friends and I took a trip down Holcomb road.

It was the final day of our last summer break before graduation. We were bumping along the rough country roads in an old Buick, blaring the kind of music specifically designed to make our parents wince. We slowed down when we saw the woods ahead, the black void in the center of the trees inviting us in. Of course, we’d all heard the stories before, each of us with our own personal vision of the fateful event that we would passionately defend. We stopped at the very edge of the trees and shut off the engine. Mosquitos tapped at the windows in the humid air. The only sign of our presence that remained was the gentle clinking of empty beer bottles rattling around in the backseat. We sat and waited. Somebody cracked wise about a ghost driver needing a ghost license. We were haughty and skeptical in the headstrong way that only teenagers--so sure of their own immortality--can be.

The driver was getting impatient, eager to return the rusty sedan to his parents before midnight and get inside in the central air. He reached for the keys, fixed to run the engine again, when two points of bright light emerged from the other end of the woods. We all went quiet, transfixed by the glow. The two points were close together, and smaller than headlights. They drew closer at a startling pace. The driver fumbled with the keys while the rest of us shouted at him to get it together. The keys hit the floor with a pathetic clink and we fell silent again.

The lights were right in front of us now, standing about seven feet in the air. Each was about the size of a baseball, casting an eerie pall across our stunned faces. These lights were attached to something bigger: they looked like the eyes of some strange creature. The hulking beast stood on two thin legs, leading up to a wide body covered in dense fur. It took a step toward the driver-side window and tilted its oblong face. Two long feathery tendrils twitched atop its head. A hooked claw tapped at the door.

I made eye contact with this thing from the passenger seat and felt a deep churn in my gut. Dread crept through my body. I could see every anxiety, every worst case scenario I’d ever imagined, play out in my head at once. The ot...

Conway receives a water-logged manuscript from a midwestern monster hunter of questionable character.

(CWs: mild drug use--cannabis, fire,)

TRANSCRIPTS:

Previous Episode

DLO 4: HEARTS AGLOW/SAVIOR

Valentine's Day comes early as a city in California replaces its old sodium-vapor streetlights with LEDs, and Conway receives a sign from above.

"My Prayer" originally composed by Georges Boulanger, Carlos Gomez Barrera, and Jimmy Kennedy, covered by the Platters, covered by me.

(CWs: some strong language, brief phallic language, food/brief crunching, death)

TRANSCRIPTS:

This case begins with a letter, Dead Letter 135707, and a recorded radio broadcast of unknown origin. Our research indicates that after a series of complaints regarding faulty streetlights in July 2016, a city in California formed a commission to replace their aging sodium-vapor lamps. City council partnered with a local tech company to quickly remove the old lights and install bright new LEDs. They sent out a notice of the planned change to all residents within city limits. This prompted the aforementioned letter in response. The letter and the radio broadcast were sent on different days, the broadcast recorded before the plan was even public, but arrived at the commission at exactly the same time. It...spiraled out from there.

A carrier noticed the mail buildup at the listed address of this supposed commission--a burned out church--and sent it our way to sort through. These are the collected letters, voicemails, emails, and other communications surrounding the days following in summer 2016.

MARY: Dear City Council,

I’m a zoologist with the University of ******. I just heard about your proposal for our streetlight issue, and I have a few concerns. First, it should be noted that the views presented here are strictly my own, and do not reflect the opinions of the university or its administration.

From what I’ve read about the commission’s plans, it seems that the city will be removing the low-pressure sodium bulbs we use now and replacing them with high-efficiency LED lights, funded partially by Thanatech. While I do think it’s a good use of taxpayer dollars to upgrade our city’s infrastructure, and efficiency is definitely desirable, my concern lies in the LEDs themselves. Our old sodium-vapor lamps may not be the brightest or most aesthetically pleasing, but these supposed deficiencies may be important. Inside low-pressure sodium bulbs, metal is heated, causing it to emit a yellowish light. This warm, relatively dim light sits around or below about 2200 kelvin, significantly warmer than natural sunlight. The LEDs you’re planning to use sit somewhere between 4000 and 6000k, the approximate color temperature of actual daylight.

So why does any of this matter, you may be thinking? Well, although these lamps aren’t great for helping us see at night, they may be better for our furry friends. It’s theorized that brighter, bluer light, like that provided by LEDs, can trick segments of the brain into thinking that it’s actually daytime. I worry that replacing our whole grid with these bulbs could have a negative effect on our local wildlife. If a bunch of birds, bats, raccoons, and skunks think it’s daytime when it’s really midnight, we could have more problems on our hands than flickering street lights. The wavelengths of light emitted by these LEDs could disrupt their behavior, and may throw off their circadian rhythms. Disrupted sleep can cause serious problems, from common irritability and sluggishness, which we often see in ourselves, to memory issues, paranoia, aggressive or impulsive behavior, lack of appetite, even hallucinations, and so on. While I think fixing our streets is a good idea, I don’t think it’s worth potentially upending our entire local ecosystems in the process. Surely we can come to some kind of middle-ground and just get new sodium lamps, right? That is, unless you’ve already paid for Thanatech’s LEDs with our tax dollars.

Either way, thank you for taking the time to consider my concerns.

Best wishes,

Dr. Mary ****, class of 2005

CONWAY: Postmarked July 11th, 2016, arrived July 12th 2016. The following radio broadcast was sent July 5th, 2016 and arrived July 12th, 2016.

CRACKLING VOICE ON THE RADIO: Good evening, ladies and gentleman. I'm here to tell you there’s electricity in the margins on the page, an atom bomb’s worth. In the space between the words, there’s energy. The things we can’t see are made of that energy. They travel through the wires and hide in stoplights. We can’t see them because we are not meant to see them. They come out at n...

Next Episode

DLO 6: GONE FISHING/MISSING

The Dead Letter Office receives a series of postcards from a place that doesn't exist. Conway takes a trip to his local art museum after some pieces go missing.

(CWs: beer, derealization)

TRANSCRIPTS:

CONWAY: This is Conway, receiving clerk for the dead letter office of ***** Ohio, processing the national dead mail backlog. The following audio recording will serve as an internal memo strictly for archival purposes and should be considered confidential. Need I remind anyone: public release of this or any confidential material from the DLO is a felony. Some names and places have been censored for the protection of the public.

A series of postcards, collectively titled Dead Letter 6910, postmarked May 17th 1980. The post office that initially received these cards were unable to determine the intended address and no return address was provided. They were apparently left on top of a cabinet for a few decades until that office closed. Agents clearing out the remaining equipment flagged these and sent them our way.

The front of the cards feature a white lighthouse, somewhat faded from exposure to the sun. Small cursive handwriting covers the postcards back to front. I’ve been able to place them in what I believe is the correct order. The messages read as follows.

LOST FISHERMAN, NARRATOR: It’s real easy to lose yourself fishing, to forget your troubles. It’s like a daydream. Now Lucy, I know fishing stories get exaggerated, but you’ve got to hear this one, sweetheart: it’s a real humdinger!

Me and Ken were out on the boat, cruising for fish. We had talked about going out on Lake Erie to nab a few meaty walleye last winter. All season I kept having the same dream: we’d be out on the drink, passing the hours doing a whole lot of nothing. I’d be almost in a daze when I’d hear the plop of my bobber dipping. I’d anchor my foot against the side of the vessel and start slowly reeling in the line. I could feel something pulling on the other end. Something big. We’d fight over the wire for minutes, then I’d finally hoist it out. A big, glistening golden walleye, almost as big as, jeez, my whole torso, you could say. But then Ken would hold up this weird upside-down painting of a lighthouse. While I was distracted, the walleye would wriggle its huge body and slip into the lake, disappearing into the deep. I’d peek up at the sun above the scattered clouds, sigh, then check my watch. But no matter how hard I tried, no matter what angle I’d look at it, I just couldn’t make out the time. Then I’d wake up.

Well since the weather’d warmed up, we figured it was about time.

So me and Ken were out on the Erie sitting on opposite sides of our little watercraft. He had this big orange life preserver on, which I still think’s a little showoffy, and his nose was white with zinc. He was gazing out over the calm water before he cast his line. It was a cool late spring morning, a little bit of haze still resting above the surface before the sun comes up and cooks it away like fat on the griddle. I flicked my wrist and sent my hook out into the lake, then reclined in my seat. I stuck my hand into the blue cooler at my feet and felt around for some jerky. Ken was still just scanning the lake, as if he was trying to find something that wasn’t there. He got this weird expression like he’d been pricked, then finally also cast his line.

We spent a while without a single bite. The morning bugs were starting to come out and swirl around the water’s surface. You know, in a way, fishing is kinda similar that new age meditation I saw on tv. You forget yourself and just be one with the fishing rod. Having a few brews handy helps with that, too.

I reached into the cooler for a beer and cracked the bottle open with a satisfying fizz. Well that finally caught Ken’s attention.

LOST FISHERMAN: “You want a cold one, buddy?” I offered.

KEN: “What brand did you bring?”

LOST FISHERMAN: “Well...” I turned around bottle in my hand, but the label was gone. It must have sweat off in the ice. “Something light. Don’t need to be getting sauced out on the lake in the middle of the day!”

Ken shrugged and took the slippery bottle. I peered over the edge at my reflection in the lake. The rippling water around the edge of the vessel distorted my face. Then the slack on my line went taut and the reel started unspooling. I shook myself from my thoughts and picked up my rod. I clicked the handle forward and started reeling her in. The drag was fierce, this must have been some fish! I braced my legs against the side of the boat and anchored the butt of the rod under the lip. I pulled and reeled in succession, but the more I struggled, the harder this thing was to reel in. My arms were getting weak, my face turned beat-red and no doubt made that strained expression you always laugh at. Ken sat and watched in shock.

KEN: “That must...