Night Vale ▷ Steve Harrington

ix. secret's out

𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐈𝐌𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐎 𝐃𝐎𝐙𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐅𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆'𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐋 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐇𝐈𝐌. He'd spent what felt like an eternity staring at the contents of the package until the surge of vomit that had threatened to make an appearance finally won over, and he'd gagged violently after looking at a photo of Letitia beside her mother on their front porch. How the person had even gotten all the photos without anyone noticing, he had no idea, but there was no doubt in his mind who was behind it.

It was a warning. A creepy, terrifying warning.

And yet, he couldn't bring himself to tell Letitia about it. She had come over to pick him up, just like she said, and by then, Scout had gathered all the pictures while trying not to look in them into the envelope they came in, stuffing it into the bottom of his backpack and throwing away the small cardboard box in the trash in hopes of forgetting about the whole thing entirely, if only for a few hours. She'd been so excited at the prospect of them playing again, playing as a band in public, that he did his best to act normal when the time came. It wouldn't be the first time he'd plastered on a smile to fool people.

But that was just what killed him. He didn't want to fool his best friend, especially when it was his fault that she'd been dragged into this whole mess to begin with. It wasn't her fault that Scout insisted they go to Night Vale all because of a stupid curiosity he couldn't seem to let go of. And look where that had gotten them. No, he would keep the photos a secret for now — only for tonight. After that, he would come clean. Of all people, she deserved to know; she was the camera's focus, not him.

Aside from being scared shitless, Scout had a feeling that the crackling energy that seemed to dominate his body — just kidding, a third option easily could have been the bean burrito he forced down for lunch — was excitement. The No Doze Cafe was a hipster joint that attracted a diverse crowd, based on current populous mingling around them as they waited for their turn. Not quite out of town but certainly out of the way, the blond was surprised more people didn't find their way inside; it was impossible to miss the huge, carved out storefront sign alone. A dark shaded oval consisted of the coffee shop's name written in what looked like a child trying to write in bubble letters for the first time, a string of Z's emanating from the Z in the title. No one said people in Hawkins were creative.

The atmosphere inside was electric, and part of Scout was surprised to find it so. Apart from the traditional white suburbs and picture-perfect house with the white picket fence, rarely does Hawkins find excuses for such a crowd to congregate, especially before the early mornings hours when the drunks and the punks and the bastards emerge from whatever hellhole they lived in like bats during the day, as if the town was New York City and not the middle of nowhere, Indiana. Regardless, at night, when the place was no longer pumping with music for easy listening, the air seemed to swirl with aromatic dreams of prospective musicians, hoping some manager might have stopped by on their way to some undoubtedly much cooler city on the American map. And if not, well, at least it was somewhere else to be when everywhere else seemed like a curse.

Normally, the coffee shop was clustered and close, nearly to the point of being uncomfortably crowded with a stranger as it took too much effort to make the trek from your seat to the counter, so many tables and so little room. But tonight, the entire space was open air, the tables and chairs and the one little oddly stained couch that was their pride and joy were all pushed to the sides to make room for the slightly raised platform they'd somehow managed to squeeze in, big enough for a small band, maybe three people max. People stood a respectful distance apart from the "stage", sipping from mugs emitting swirls of steam that disappeared into the humid air. Despite the December weather, not a single door or window was left open, leaving Scout to wish that he'd worn something different.