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You're listening to 96.6
- “Our friends at the highway patrol inform us that a Citreon 3CV left Kerilian moments ago with an unknown destination. I wish a long and happy life to whoever is in that vehicle and that they never dare to come back to our city. It's obvious that their luck - if that's what it is - is still intact. And to the rest of you, enjoy the daylight as much as possible. Longer nights are coming, and so are problems... ”
- - ― ― Locudor - La Frecuencia Kirlian
One of the reports in the various files was about a little town in the South East of the Pit. The distance from the pit is at least twice what the copper mine was. The town, in and of itself, is an unassuming place. On Maps, it's marked as Ezekiel's Holler. No one knows the history of the town, but the history of it marks it as an old prospector town like the thousands that litter the landscape in this area of California.
The thing that's special about this town is that in 1936, one scant year after the first station for Cali over in Monterey. The great-grand Nephew of the founder of the town still owned the papers for the land and put it to use building the radio station out of an old church. A small town grew up around it, a Gas Station and attacked garage. A Small two-story hotel built out of the old false-front buildings that used to house the various businesses in this town. The old dirt road was paved out to the station itself and the family had built a horse ranch adjacent.
This is a very small town, the exit seemed almost like an afterthought a sort of lazy-sharp left that looks more like a pull off than an off-ramp. The town has maintained, likely thanks to the Gas Station and the Ranch because the hotel doesn't look like it's seen as a guest since the 1950s and the radio station seems to be impossible to find on the radio.
The file also indicates that though the radio is difficult to get, there -does- seem to be activity of messenger spiders and wave-pattern sprits in the area. Indicating that it is active. This is highly unusual for a dead station.
It's a damn good thing that Raquel keeps an extra gas can or two full for trips like this. You never know when you end up in the middle of nowhere. She pulls up to park over at the gas station, peering up through the passenger side window at the 'dead' radio station. She can see the little fuckers crawling around from here, to be sure. Oversized sunglasses and a large-brimmed hat go with her unassuming sundress. Her blonde wavy hair is tied back with a yellow ribbon. Of course, the sculpted body and now ever-present reddish-black tattoo overlapping the main blood vessels in her body up to her neck might cause a head or two to turn.
The gas station is manned by two people. One is the mechanic a man in his early 40's in a grease-stained jumpsuit and an even older man who's napping in a chair behind the register. The bell that announces that there's a knockout at the pumps doesn't wake the older man so instead the larger man stands up, heavy boots thudding against the ground as he moves through the door that connects the garage to the station and heads to wake up the older man. The pumps are still old rollover meters with large square bodies and round lamps atop with the name of the brand of petrol that hasn't even been in business for five decades.
The older man when roused stands and brushes himself off and heads out, hunched with his age as he moves over calling out loud enough to be heard over the glass. "Can I help ya, Ma'am?" Raquel's unique appearance doesn't seem to bother the old white-man, his iron-on name tag reads 'Mo'.
This area smells like gas, grease and the clinging distance scent of the horse ranch. The road is so empty that animals use the blacktop as a trail. A coyote trots along past the station, ignoring the gas station.
Raquel's inquisitive look turns into a quick grin, her shielded eyes tracking the fearless coyote. "Yes! I'd like some gas, please." Hopefully, the pumps now carry something more modern and refined so that her little flower-power van doesn't end up dying on her. Although, it might be just the right fit given the year and model. She pulls out one of those cheap little clicking cameras, disposable for tourists not willing to lose a smartphone, before wandering closer to Mo and pointing off to the radio station. "Is that still working? I can't imagine if you guys still get tunes out here." Yes, silly city folk and their expectations of 'country life'.
"Sure thing, Ma'am." The stooped older man is not quick about his business but he is diligent and still working at his age which is something of a miracle. He listens to Raquel as he knocks for her to pop the tank before starting the deasil into the old van. He eh's and glances the direction of the old radio tower built over the church. "No Ma'am. That Radio Station hasn't been active for about thirty years." His voice is old, paper-thin like his skin but still respectful and polite in a way that most modern towns long grew out of. The Mechanic heads back into the garage and lets 'Mo' tend the customer.
The gas pumps and each number ticks softly as the meter raises. Down the road, there are wraithly reflections of a crumbling civilization that has sprung up here and died several times. Desert spirits mingle with the old-tech weaver spiders crawling all over the tower and through the invisible lines of radio-waves that flow out into the distance. A strange feeling hangs in the air everywhere, there's no visible reason for the hair on the back of Raquel's neck to be raising or the weird Seipia feeling that clings like spiderwebs to the edges of her perception of the 'Other'.
The old man spots the camera and smiles a jack-o-lantern grin. Perhaps not as turned off as some by the idea of tourism. "You can have a look around if you like. These pumps are a bit slow." The last rasped apologetically.
"OH! Ok. Thank you!" Raquel is appreciative and it shows. It's nice to be treated with dignity and respect for a change. Even if Mo decides to take a peek at her backside. She trots off happily in her low-heeled sandals, knowing every bit of inventory in her locked vehicle as she takes her handbag along. Closer and closer does she get to the radio station, pausing in brief moments to get little pictures of the building as she circles and indulges her tourist curiousity?
Lizards, rabbits, even a goat in the distance move about. They share this land with the tiny town that lives here, unbothered by the Bygone's movements as they go about their daily life. In the distance, Raquel can hear the sounds of equines in the large barn. There are a half-dozen houses between Raquel and the Ranch itself, a rough mix of a tar-paper shack and mobile home, only one or two even try to have some semblance of home.
The Church is typical of those built in the Wild West, A large white building which is large enough for a small congregation and two later additions for the Preist's quarters and likely what was a small Sunday school, all low and earthly compared to the cupola that still houses the shadow of an ancient bell that has a large T across it. At some point, someone had lopped the top of the cross off and never replaced it.
Most of the windows are boarded, the arched front doors are barricaded and the white paint on the side is more sun-bleached than it is the peeling layers of whitewash. It appears that there is a basement to it, or it has a raised concrete foundation which would be unusual in the desert.
There on the side is spraypainted in angry red against the faded siding: "No Good Deed Goes Unpunished." Despite the 'inactivity, of this radio no birds nests or birds are roosting on the tower that stabs into the air, the tip of the antenna blackened, likely from years of lightning strikes in California desert thunderstorms.
Raquel wants to storm the church. Badly. However, it's still daytime and there are a couple of witnesses. The hotel might or might not be abandoned, and there's only one way to find out as she tromps her way back to the gas station. "Do you know if the hotel is still open?" She asks, contemplating how defensive a position might be held in one of its antiquated suites.
Raquel rolls Perception + Alertness vs 6 for 1 successes.
A wraith of a woman can be seen, she's barely more than a shadow of life, a painful looped memory of her last few moments behind the rectory steps on some night in the late 1800s by the state of her dress. It too is lusterless like the feeling that continues to seep into the overlapping realities. On her way back Raquel's presence causes rats to scurry to scramble from the garbage can be tucked away by the back steps leading into the ministers quarters.
"Oh, yes Ma'am it still is open. Ms. Mavis isn't there but there's a number you can call in the window. I'll make sure her husband calls'er to let'er know she might expect a call." He gestures to the meter. "That'll be fifteen-twenty-two, Ma'am." The old man maunders helpfully.
The Hotel provides for an easy escape route though it is flanked by the barn and the Ranch. But this town doesn't seem densely populated.
Always one to be prepared, Raquel hands over her payment in cash. The exact amount so that no change is needed. So thoughtful. "Thank you for being so helpful." Don't give complicated words for thanks, and the tanned woman waves with her fingers clapping closed before sauntering off to climb into the old vehicle. She has plans to make for tonight.
The old man shuffles off to record the sale and calls back to the guy in the shop who reaches for the phone.
The Hotel exterior is the old style of the hotel; twelve rooms at most in a single straight line, two stories. The walls are a dusty-earthy stucco and the railings have at least been updated within the last century. The office is a little building which is both a small shop and the hotel clerk off to the side that does, indeed, have a hand-written sign that reads: Please call ###-###-#### for service. Ask for Mavis.
There's not even a name on the large glowing sign, it simply reads 'Hotel' in Mid-Modern Century script on a large lit sign of the same era. Here, Raquel has a better view of the old single-story ranch house and the fields of Alphapa behind it. Across from most of the hotel are the barn and the open corrals for the horses. A few are out in the open fenced off area, doing what horses do.
Mavis answers and says she'll send her son down to take care of the transaction an anything Raquel might need. A Fourteen-year-old boy, very shy, comes down and helps Raquel through the entire sale without looking up even once and blushing furiously -the whole time-. Raquel can buy any supplies she might need for her stay, he apologizes because the pool hasn't worked in years and it's been filled with cement. And he says if she needs anything to just call that number, otherwise, she can help herself to the towels and all rooms are equipped with two sets of bedding.
The Interior of this Nowhere Hotel in California is like the sign, Mid-Century Modern. Painted in what was to baby-shit colored to ever be earthy shades of green and brown, stripes and solids. Despite the last era this motel was redone in the hotel room -is clean-, or at least has been cleaned int he last week. There is running water and even complimentary instant coffee. Raquel is then left to her own devices as the boy runs home to hide behind his mother from full-steam puberty.
Nothing strokes Raquel's ego quite like leaving a lasting memory on the young and impressionable. Soft lips leave a little peck on the young man's temple, probably furthering his own discomfort as he scurries away. One her special little bag is plopped down upon the bed, the sunglasses and hat goes too. Raquel frees her hair and teases it free, relaxed green eyes scanning the room for any surveillance while she exhales in relief. Like humans do after a long trip. Of course, the layers of reality in between will fill in the gaps in ways that many cannot stomach.
The only things electronic in this room are the alarm which is a flip clock style with a radio, the ugly green phone - a landline - and the television which is one of those sets with its own legs and a large rounded rectangle screen that always stretched the low-def pictures a bit too much and no longer work. The room smells slightly stale but there are no lingering odors like overused hotels or hotels that get musty. For some reason, they maintain this hotel.
Mone is not disturbed at all. Not in any of the realities. It seems that the people here think nothing more of her than she's a tourist. It must happen from time to time along this lonely stretch of road.
Eventually, about an hour before sunset, Raquel no matter where she is will become aware of a strange scent in the air, like marigolds and citronella.
Having taken advantage of the rickety old shower, she cleans up quickly before getting ready for her big night. Her sensitive nose picks up the scent as she dresses in spandex pants and a long-sleeved turtlenecked bodysuit. All close-fitting and unable to come loose without effort. Is someone burning a candle? There isn't anyone in her room, or so she thought, and thus the hunt for the source of the scent begins.
When she opens the door it's when she realizes that it's the scent in the air. No candles and no seeming fires are burning but the scent lingers anyway. Like someone had sprayed the faintest of air freshener over the town. Across the road, there's still activity at the Ranchhouse and the houses have all begun to light up. The Gas Station sign is still lit as the sun starts to drop, making the shadows grow longer.
Having taken the barest of edges off of her paranoia, Raquel closes the door shut and locks it properly. It's time to go. She strides the inside of the room until she gets to that tiny window in the bathroom, covering the lower half of her face and covering the top of her hair with a bandana, ignoring the laws of physics and fading out of view. It's that cautious, quiet crawl along vertical surfaces as she advances towards the prize off in the distance.
Raquel slips easily through the layers of reality, this place is nigh-untouched by the most recent onslaught of reality being reinforced by the Weaver. The Spirits here, though some are curious mostly leave Mone alone. But there is a sound here, in her bedroom, one that wasn't there before.
A Voice Speaks in soft tones, popping quietly on old speakers. When Mone opens the door, the sound is coming from the very solid, very real, even on -this- side of the gauntlet radio.
The voice is calming, interesting, like the voices of radio broadcasters should be, only broken by the electric static of the speakers. "This is 96.6, All night, Every night. I'm your host, and tonight we have a visitor to our town.."
"Gee, I wonder what new visitor that could be?..." Raquel mutters in response to the old haunted radio. It means all eyes on her if they can catch a peek, and her advantage of surprise is shot to Hell. No matter. Slipping through the very shadows themselves, Raquel continues to make her way to the renovated church. Who knows what she'll find? Maybe that woman in the faded dress of a long-gone era will make her appearance once more.
A voice says, “This next song goes out to our visitor, in hopes that she will understand before it's too late." Hotel California starts to play on the radio. Though the way the man speaks it's hard to say if he expects Raquel to be listening or not. As she heads out the music fades in and out, all of the radios in this place are tuned to 96.6. Umbrally the church looks like it should. There's nothing unusual at all about the building, even the barricade wood across the door has an umbral shadow. Around back, however, the door to the rectory is not blocked off.”
It was too late when she moved to Chinatown in Prospect. Too late when Pax sunk his claws into her, and then again when interview time came and Zora shattered her knee to make a point. No matter how you slice it, Raquel can't ever turn back from the clutches of Capitalism and the Wyrm, and so the warning is willfully unheeded as she slinks around the place. Finding the rectory free, Raquel decides to go for the easy way in. Even though it's probably a trap. -Especially- because it's a trap.
Raquel rolls Perception + Awareness vs 4 for 11 successes.
She's crossed the umbra enough times to know how it feels when reality shifts around her. Barriers pass across her skin and she finds herself. Somewhere. The Underworld? Maybe... it's strange. Spores and motes drift through the air in the shadows of the unlit rectory. A motheaten matress haphazardly place atop the old wire and metal frame bed shoved into one corner. In the recess where the priest's tiny praying altar might be instead is an Altar with a Calavera Madonna, hands lifted in prayer over her holy heart with a knife through it. The statue seems to cry real tears.
The door is shut but in the wide gap between the wood and the floor a flickering blue almost electrical halogen light shines through the darkness.
On the wall, painted across it with jarring colors, mustard yellow, blood red, and black is a representation of a flaming eye with three stars, two to each side and one below.
Raquel hates cults. Pax's is a special case, considering that he doesn't -need- one for his ego. Only his work. The blazing eye is glowered at before the invisible and intangible Bygone pulls her gaze away and scans walls, ceiling, floor: The last thing she needs is to step upon an obvious sigil of some sort. It appears clear, she moves to adhere to a wall and crawl sideways until she gets next to the door for a closer listen.
"That is a great song. I suggest staying in tonight, it's a cold night out there. Here's another song to keep your warm against that cold desert chill. When we get back we'll be taking a caller."
The voice is the same as the one in the radio previously, his pleasant rumble of a voice uninterrupted by the static sounds of old speakers. Light my Fire starts to play silently but otherwise.. despite the obvious trap? Nothing happens.
If the gentleman is about to take callers from across the Gauntlet, how is he managing it? One could easily read too much into such things, and Raquel simply wants answers. Why did Eris point her in this direction again? Due to the fact that Raquel cannot bend reality the way that a Nephandus can, she opts for pushing the envelope the most direct way she can. She pokes her intangible self through the door, hoping to get a glimpse and a wall-hold without her head getting cut off. Not like that would kill her, of course.
She passes her head through the door and sees the silhouette of the DJ at his recording desk. It's dark, that single light behind him, contrasting to the OFF AIR light that indicates that currently, the mic isn't on. The man's facade is strange; flat, not smooth but as if someone had cut off his nose, light can be seen shining through holes in his rotting flesh, but his hair is a perfect pompadour. In the radio room, the dark shadowy motes and sporelike pale motes drift on the light giving everything a weird dirty, moldering feel. Of course, the Bygone is invisible and so she is ignored by the unusual DJ as he sets up the phone for a caller.
It's all so surreal. Raquel's curiosity can be paired with patience if given the right motivation. She hadn't expected an undead announcer. And if this is true in the Shadowlands... then who would have any reason to come in here? Of course, she hadn't quite checked the door in the other room to see if it was locked or not. So, continuing to adhere to the wall, she continues to watch and listen to the husk work.
Another classic rock song plays and once the music finishes and the announcer says, "Hey everybody we're back from that long break and I've got the lines open waiting for callers. So call in and tell me what's keeping you up all night."
It's moments, maybe, before the phone rings and the zombie-DJ hits a button, "Hello, you're on the air with 96.6. More problems are arising and unless things get resolved things will be much worse. Lay on us the story of your circumstances.."
A voice, crackles softly, "Hello. Hello, my teacher almost died six months ago but when he came back he said he was having dreams and that we were all going to burn. And then he asked us to kill him.. What do I do?" The voice is young, female, unfamiliar. Likely early or mid-teens. "I don't know what to do. Some of the students in my class want to agree, they think that he'll agree to adjust their grades if they do it... There are so many. Should I tell the police?"
Great... the unfamiliarity with how the world works, coupled with a lack of proper instruction, and today's youth is flopping around on moral quandaries like a beached goldfish. Is the teacher something more than they appear? Raquel listens raptly to hear what the DJ has to offer in the way of advice.
Raquel rolls Wits + Subterfuge vs 6 for 4 successes.
The DJ booth had been set up where the old pulpit used to be; a few pews remain but most of them have been replaced by various equipment that seems powered despite the fact they are not in the Tellurian.
Mone listens for advice and finds that the DJ offers no advice. He talks the girl out, draws out more of the story. The story gets weirder, more descriptive and the DJ only ever draws it out, with master subtlety, as if to get every sick detail of the tale without actually helping out. In the end, the girl resolves to work with her classmates, she could use the A and her teacher's crazy. Right?
The next call is similar. Not a child but a longsuffering middle-aged man talking about a tale of how guilty he felt because through his own inaction he'd let another man be murdered. All because he was afraid to speak up. It haunts him. This one does not ask for advice but the misery in his tone seems to soak into the radio waves.. echoing it back out into the world.
Another about a group of teenagers harassing a town and the old WASP woman who vows to do whatever she can - even sell her soul - to keep her community 'clean'. The Dj remains at his spot, never judging or dissuading anyone from spewing their spleen all over the radio waves.
The one thing the silk voiced undead does do, though, always reminds his listens to be safe. To not go out after dark...
Raquel can hear other things too now. Outside the walls.. she can hear the wailing of the wraith woman. She can hear the sounds of other things shuffling just outside the barred double doors.
The thing is - she couldn't get this radio station in the Tellurian, neither could Eris.. and these people all sound -real-. Very real.
Raquel rolls Wits + Occult + 6 vs 6 for 7 successes.
Raquel rolls Intelligence + Occult vs 8 for 4 successes.
Ingenius! Raquel can watch as the lines become unraveled as to how and why the DJ's efforts work for H&W. -If- he's working for them, but chances are the meticulous efforts to bait the stories for the items of power is obvious now. Instead of confronting the desiccated man within his own demense, the Bygone has a different idea: Becoming somewhat solid, yet still invisible, she reaches over quietly to grab onto the door handle and turn it. Come forth, the spirits beyond!
The door swings open, the rotten beams of wood do little to bar what is outside. Zombies! Well.. some. Shuffling unintelligent husks compared to the quaffed dude tending the mic and the music. The others are horrendous, nightmare homunculi of stitched together limbs and alien sharp-toothed sphincter orifices. Wird backward limbed monstrosities lumber in the background...
They don't seem interested in the church until the door is open. Then one of the faceless corpses dressed in rags turns it's head, missing everything from halfway up the nose up, little more than nostrils and a drooling mouth slathers it's lips with a slimy tongue as it sniffs and turns, getting on all fours and scrambling for the door. Others follow... Of course, they are looking for live prey! Various shapes and sizes and mobile body parts break the creaking wood as they storm the door, knocking over a cabinet in the process and making a loud racket.
The DJ doesn't seem ruffled, he interrupts his caller with a, "One moment Ma'am, I've got to play a commercial then we'll get back with you. And he pushes another button and an ad for 'Hidden Treasures', LTD starts to play as he gets up and sighs, a raspy gurgle before he stands with a revolver.
The toothy whatever that had knocked the cabinet over gets the pistol aimed at it, and it is shot making it give off an inhuman screech and run away for the door. These things are hungry but clearly not intelligent... "OUT!" He demands of the messed up creatures. "We're ON the Air!"
The things don't really seem to understand his words but they understand being shoved and the 'mean boom-stick' being pointed in their direction. Many of them scamper without too much fuss, others get kicked out. He shuts the door with the last one out and goes back to his job. Collecting stories...
Raquel is unhindered through this whole process though one of those toothy things had gotten awfully close to sliming her leg with its oversized tongue.
Fin
(TBC...)
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