Night Vale ▷ Steve Harrington

i. voices of the night

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐒 𝐖𝐄𝐏𝐓 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐘. The strange orange lights with enigmatic origins flashed at seemingly random intervals, newspapers fluttering on distant abandoned porches, the headline, as always, detailing animal maulings and sales for supposedly cursed objects. The soulless eyes of drivers glazed as they shook their head while passing by, not bothering to stop at a gas station lest something mysterious happen with them in the middle of it, the occasional headlight cutting through the perpetual fog like thin sheets of ice, the darkness pressuring against the windows, the high lost in a jigsaw puzzle stretch of land miles behind.

It was difficult to form thoughts in this dark, so encompassing that it has a suffocating feeling as if it's pressing in from all sides, the stillness of the air sucking in everything from his hitched breathing and heavy footfalls, and the only thing he could bear to hear was the beating of his heart; the eerie sounds of animals and objects he'd rather not identify didn't seem to abide by the rules of nighttime, for they continued to rustle in spite of his slowly growing fear. It was the kind of silence that throbbed before getting stabbed in the back.

Scout had let time run away with him. The passing hours of the afternoon seemed like mere minutes ago, but in the back of his mind he reminded himself of the time he had spent with Letitia after school, him never having any extracurriculars and her reveling in the cancellation of band and soccer practice, the two of them paying a visit to their favorite gas station for slushies and snacks before heading to Letitia's house to hang out in her basement until Scout's father noticed he was gone. Considering the man's track record, it was more than possible he wouldn't remember until the next day, despite Scout reminding him that morning, but as much as he would have liked to spend the night at his friend's house, he was observant enough to notice the lingering glances of her parents whenever he came over, and decided it was best to lay low for a while, or until Letitia scolded them for thinking there was anything between them; something that was becoming a habit, it seemed.

Playing the drums, of course, was something he kept to himself. He didn't think his father cared if he did, just as long as the noise wasn't too loud, which was why he'd been so excited at their own basement being soundproof when they first moved to Hawkins when he was a kid-even then, music was as important to him as breathing.

He would have put on earbuds and simply listened to his walkman, had it not been so dark and alone; it made him feel exposed almost, as if he couldn't hear what could possibly come for him if he wasn't fully paying attention. He was reminded of Letitia's offer to simply drive him home, seeing as how she was the only one of the two with a driver's license, and it really would have been much better than standing in the dark, terrified of his own shadow, but he'd refused, simply thanking her and agreeing to meet in the morning.

That easily could have been hours ago, since the passage of time since he'd left her house felt like more than he could bear, and he regretted never wearing a watch, if only to have something to concentrate on in the moment instead of letting his imagination run wild with all the possibilities of what could be scurrying past just beyond his line of sight; the band always made his skin itch and it was typically just easier to ask someone what time it was rather than suffer with the irritation all day long.

Even so, Scout wished he'd stuck around Letitia's house until his dad came to pick him up, seeing as how he was far more terrified than he should have been standing on the side of the road after nightfall. It wasn't as if he was scared of the dark-at least, he didn't think he was-but he couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right, like the eerie quiet was a prelude to something sinister brewing behind the scenes. Maybe it was the litter blowing across the mostly abandoned road like tumbleweed in an old western movie, or the flickering street light that illuminated shadows of small animals in the distant, or maybe the chill that fell over him whenever he heard the slightest movement, but it was something, and he didn't know what it was, so he cursed himself under his breath, because anything would have been better than this.