It Devours!

by Joseph Fink

  “That guy that was out here with me last week. Darryl,” she tried. “He works with the Joyous Congregation of the Smiling God. He’s nice. I think he’s nice. But I also think the church is maybe doing awful stuff. We had a date last night. Like it went well, but I didn’t realize how far up in the church he was until this morning, and it made me feel awful.

  “I think something terrible is happening, something related to the church. Or maybe it’s the City Council, in which case I don’t expect you’ll tell me. Larry Leroy is dead. So is everyone at Big Rico’s. There are these pits out in the desert. And rumbling under the earth. And I don’t want to become part of a police investigation or get arrested. But I think that if I could see some kind of footage, that would help.”

  Whap whap whap.

  “Why am I talking to you? You’re probably recording all of this and are going to report me. I’m going to have to go down to the Secret Police station and turn this data over. You know what? Let’s just pretend I didn’t say anything. Are we cool? Can I go?”

  No response.

  “Damn it. Damn it. Damn it,” she said.

  She stared at the ground and realized that maybe the helicopter was giving her a silent opportunity to leave. Go! Get out of there, her mind shouted at her.

  She jumped into the driver’s seat, said, “Glad we’re all cool. Seeya!” and slammed the door. She started the engine and turned the car toward the main road.

  “HALT, NILANJANA SIKDAR! HALT YOUR VEHICLE.”

  Her engine cut out, stopped remotely by the helicopter. Most car problems in Night Vale turn out to be caused by the sabotage of government or city agents. Auto mechanics regularly end up arrested for tampering with government operations. As the engine stopped, her stomach fell. So did her head. Her forehead bumped in frustration against the steering wheel.

  She got out of the car and raised her hands.

  “Put your hands down,” the loudspeaker said.

  She did. There was a pause. She didn’t know what to do with her hands now that they were down.

  “Last week my boyfriend left me,” the helicopter said. “‘You fly around in that helicopter all the time,’ he told me. And I said, ‘Not all the time. Don’t use superlatives, Nate. You’re always using superlatives.’ But he wanted to go to Aaliyah Seance Night at Dark Owl Records. Aaliyah does occasional concerts via a medium at the record store and they’re nearly impossible to get tickets to, because the owner of that place doesn’t want anything to get too popular, so she only makes three tickets available to the public.”

  “Aaliyah was so great.”

  “Still is. Anyway, I couldn’t go because I was out here doing this. And I love hovering in place and staring at all the sand, but Nate’s right, I do this all the time, and it’s hard to find someone who is nice and understanding and brings you falafel on your lunch break. How was the Moonlite’s falafel by the way? I’ve been meaning to try that.”

  “Fine. A bit dry, but the paraffin wax chips and butterscotch marmalade were tasty.”

  “Good, good. Darryl’s a nice guy. I looked up some stuff on him. And that church is weird, no doubt. But I don’t know. I’m not telling you you have to be in a relationship. But finding a person to have cocktails with. Ooh, how was the Mulch Mojito at Tourniquet? My bartender friend Arjun told me that you ordered that drink.”

  “Not good. Darryl’s manhattan was better but the texture was too crunchy.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Listen, no offense, but I think I’d rather be arrested than have a helicopter cop explain the importance of dating to me. Is this what you do now, seminars? I’m sorry to hear Nate left you. That’s very sad. I’m sure you’re nice too, like Darryl, but also like Darryl, you work for a pretty terrifying organization. I don’t think the city has my best interests in mind here. I just want to find out what we’re up against. That’s all I want.”

  A minute of silent hovering in which Nilanjana was too scared to move, and then a huffing sound from the loudspeaker. It sounded like sniffling.

  “Are you crying?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad.”

  “No, I’m being an asshole to you. It’s just this is my job, and I love my job. And you, you’re nice. I like it when you’re in the desert. I don’t feel so alone.”

  “Me too. I like it when you’re here.”

  “And your needs and my job . . . They kind of conflict, I guess. And”—more huffing until they recovered their words—“I miss Nate. I miss him. I can’t sleep. I miss him.”

  “Come here. Come here.”

  The helicopter lowered to the ground. The wind whipped sand into Nilanjana’s shirt and hair, and she had to turn her head and squint. She walked sideways toward the cockpit. The windows were heavily tinted and she couldn’t see anything through them.

  “I’m going to give you a hug, okay?” Nilanjana offered.

  “I’M NOT ALLOWED TO EXIT THE CRAFT. IT’S A SECRET POLICE VEHICLE AND THERE ARE SECRET POLICE THINGS IN HERE. PLUS I’M SHY.”

  The loudspeaker was painfully loud from this short a distance. Nilanjana stepped up on one of the skids and drew her arms wide, placing her palms flat against the sides of the door. “Ssshhh . . .” she said, as she gently patted the door.

  Sobs roared out of the loudspeaker. Her ears would be ringing the rest of the day.

  “IT’S SO STUPID.”

  “It’s not. Sssh,” Nilanjana said, rubbing her hand back and forth along the helicopter.

  A minute or so passed.

  “I. I SHOULD GO. THANK YOU. I DIDN’T REALIZE HOW MUCH I NEEDED THAT.”

  Nilanjana’s ears burned, not just from the volume but also from being pressed against the hot metal door. She let the helicopter go, and retreated to a safe distance.

  “You’re welcome. I hope to see you again soon.”

  “YOU TOO.” The helicopter began its ascent.

  “Hey, are you going to report this? I just need to know, so I’m not worrying about it for the rest of my life.”

  “You’re good. Also, check your phone.”

  “Check my phone?”

  “The government has more, but they’ll never let you see. This was all I could send without being noticed. Good-bye, Nilanjana Sikdar.” The helicopter returned to its spot 150 feet in the air.

  “Thanks! Bye!” She waved.

  No response.

  Nilanjana returned to her car. It had been an unproductive day, but at least it hadn’t been counterproductive. She grabbed her phone. No emails or messages. She opened up her files and found one that hadn’t been there before, labeled “Sorry the Mulch Mojito Wasn’t Good.”

  She clicked the file and gasped as she realized what she was looking at.

  17

  The desert from a helicopter’s point of view. Mountains separating blue sky and beige sand. For several seconds, nothing but that.

  Then something moving in the sand. Possibly an error in video replay, but it looked like bumps of earth rising and then falling, one after the other, in a line. And then, some huge shape coming out of the sand, arcing through the air, and disappearing back into the sand. Then again. The resolution wasn’t good, so the only thing certain about it was the movement.

  She watched the video again and again. But the more she watched it, the less certain she became about what she was seeing. It was proof that there was something there, but didn’t give her any information about what it was. The pilot had mentioned that this was all he could save from the city. Which meant the city had more. She would need to get it from the Hall of Public Records downtown, one of the most secure and private locations in Night Vale.

  The archivists who ran the Hall of Public Records did not like lots of things. They didn’t like journalists. They didn’t like ancestry research. They didn’t like questions. They despised Capricorns. Loathed them. They certainly didn’t like scientists. They kept the archives behin
d thick vault doors and used an elaborate security system.

  Nilanjana had been thrown out of the Hall of Public Records once for trying to get a copy of her car registration. She had lost the original. Back in Indiana, something like that wouldn’t be a problem, and it hadn’t occurred to her that this would be different in her new town. She filled out Form 11-AU-RF and paid the thirty-five-dollar fee. The clerk stamped the form and the back of her check, then stapled them together, placed them into a manila file folder, took out a cigarette lighter, and burned the whole thing. They tossed the flaming paperwork into a metal trash can and then stomped it out with their boot. Nilanjana filled out the form again and wrote another check, got back in line, hoping for a different clerk. She got a different clerk, but when she handed the money and form to them, they gnawed the paper to shreds with their teeth. She asked what she could do to ensure that they would accept her form and payment, but this had been the wrong approach. The clerk pressed a button below their countertop and an alarm rang out. An LED screen above her began flashing the word TREASON. The others in line, who had previously been pointing at her and shouting “Interloper!” changed from that friendly greeting into a malevolent scream of “Fifth columnist! Fifth columnist!” She didn’t even know what fifth columnist meant. She looked it up later, but the definition in the dictionary had been redacted. Then she went to the public library to look it up, and was nearly bitten in half by a librarian that had broken loose from its shackles. The learning process of moving to a new area can be exhausting, and even the most basic errands can feel like a struggle.

  Now she knew she couldn’t just walk up to the Hall of Public Records registrar’s desk and ask for files on strange subterranean activities in the desert. So instead she walked up to the registrar’s desk and asked where the restroom was, hoping to then sneak off and find the records.

  The clerk glared at her for a long moment. So did the line of people she cut in front of to ask her question. Several of them grumbled “Interloper.” Several others nodded and agreed: “Interloper.”

  The clerk looked the part of an archetypical government employee: elderly, at least seven feet tall, uneven shoulders, and wearing a visor, plastic vampire teeth, and orange peels for earrings. The clerk wore a name tag that said, CITY OF NIGHT VALE HALL OF PUBLIC RECORDS and then underneath was an etching of a spike-tipped cudgel.

  Nilanjana tried again: “I’m sorry to interrupt . . . um, is that a mace or a club? I’m not sure I know how to pronounce your name.”

  The clerk hissed.

  Nilanjana hissed back.

  The clerk nodded and pointed toward an unmarked wooden door in the corner of the waiting area.

  “Knock four times. Wait ninety seconds and then scratch down the center of it,” the clerk said.

  “Thank you.”

  Hiss.

  “Interloper,” said Charlie Bair, behind her in line. He was there to apply for a Haunting License, which would allow him to be a ghost after he died. The city only issued a few a year, because ghosts were cool and everyone wanted to be a ghost.

  Nilanjana knocked on the door, then waited and scratched, as the clerk had said. A panel in the door slid open. It was dark behind the panel.

  When nothing happened, she said, “Hello?”

  Nothing continued to happen.

  “Hellllooo?” She leaned into the hole but couldn’t see anything.

  “It’s unlocked, just open it,” the clerk shouted from across the room.

  “Interloper,” Charlie said again, but distractedly. He was worried he wouldn’t get his license and would have to cease to exist after he died, which seemed boring to him.

  Nilanjana turned the doorknob. It opened easily. She stepped into what felt like a hallway, but it was too dark to see. The door slipped from her fingers as she moved forward and it slammed shut behind her. She was in absolute blackness except for a single box of light on the floor from the panel in the door. The darkness felt heavy, and she imagined that there was someone just next to her. And then that imagination became a certainty. There was someone just next to her in the dark hallway. Frantically, she tried to open the door, but there was no knob or handle on the inside. Whatever was in the hallway with her was reaching for her, she knew. She knew that it was about to touch her with hands that would be cold and dry.

  A face appeared on the other side of the panel. Two white eyes in the shadow of a backlit head. Nothing touched her.

  Nilanjana stifled a scream. “You scared me.”

  “Everything should scare you,” the face said. “Everything and everybody is scary.”

  It was not the voice of the clerk. She had no idea who this was.

  “The bathroom is down this hall,” the voice said. “Hang a left. Then another left. Then pass two hallways, then another left. Then take the stairs up two flights. Turn right. Go down one flight, and it will be four doors down on your right.”

  “Is there a light switch in this hallway?”

  The panel slammed shut. It was completely dark. Any second now a cold, dry hand. She wasn’t alone in here. She wasn’t alone in here.

  Stop it, she told herself. This wasn’t rational. This was just fear. She needed to look at the data and make a hypothesis.

  Hypothesis: The hallway was empty when I entered it, so it’s still empty now. The feeling of not being alone is just my body’s response to the dark.

  She hoped that the data would continue to support this hypothesis.

  She felt along the walls looking for a light switch, or even a door. Feeling in the dark, she found a bend to the left in the path. After more cautious blind walking, she found another bend to the left. She came to another apparent turn, but upon feeling the area out, she realized it was a four-way intersection. She decided to go right, against the voice’s directions. After all, she wasn’t actually looking for a bathroom, and with the way things were going, she wouldn’t want to use any bathroom they had anyway.

  She rummaged in her bag and found her cell phone. She activated the flashlight app on it and used its weak light to examine her surroundings. There was door after door, down the hallway as far as the beam of light went. Many of them were unhelpful, with markings that said things like ROOM 16-UX-9: SUPPLIES (which was confusingly right next to Room 2783: Commissary) or ROOM 12.4Z: THIS DOOR LEADS NOWHERE (which was completely accurate; the door opened onto a wall). She backtracked a couple of times looking for any kind of room with a label like ECOLOGY STUDIES or LAND MANAGEMENT or even TOP SECRET SHIT IN THE DESERT. She laughed. That’d be convenient, she thought.

  Failing to find anything spelled out, she tried the next door she came to (ROOM MMMM-459-P: PUBLIC PIANO REGISTRY) just to see what was inside. The door opened into a room that was as dark as the hallway. Her flashlight wavered over a high-ceilinged space, covered wall to wall with shelves full of document boxes. Then her beam found the face of a woman and Nilanjana yelped. The woman yelped back. She was sitting at a desk in the middle of the completely dark room. By her were stacks of boxes. Every single one of the boxes, except for the one nearest to the door, was labeled PIANO DECLINED. The one by the door said, PIANO DECLINATION—PENDING.

  “Interloper!” the woman shouted.

  “Hi. Sorry. Wrong room.” Nilanjana backed out of the doorway and turned her light down the hall. She saw what looked like a figure at the end of the hall. “Who’s there?” she said. She took a few more steps forward, and the figure became clear. It was the woman from the desk.

  “You aren’t supposed to be here, Interloper,” the woman said.

  “You are trespassing,” the same woman shouted, but from the other direction. Nilanjana turned her light. The woman was still at the desk. Her skin was like rice paper, with pulsing blue veins underneath. She looked like a cave fish.

  “I don’t like trespassers,” the woman said from the hallway. When Nilanjana turned the light back to her, the woman was much closer.

  “Do you know what I do with trespassers?” the woman
said from the desk. Now she was standing.

  “I eat them,” the woman said from the hallway. She was inches away. Her breath was hot against Nilanjana’s face. It smelled like old cooking oil. In the upturned light from the phone, her face was a moonscape of shadows.

  “Yes, I eat them,” the same woman said from the doorway, her breath hot against Nilanjana’s ear.

  “I’m just looking for some records,” Nilanjana managed.

  “I ate the records,” the woman said, with both of her bodies and both of her voices, slightly out of time with each other.

  Nilanjana had no scientific model to understand what was happening at this moment, and so she listened to her instinct to run. As she stumbled backward, she swung the light between the two versions of the woman, catching the stop-motion movement of the woman’s bodies jerking in strange postures toward her. “I,” the woman said. There was only one of her now. She was a few feet away. “Ate.” Inches away. “Them.” A cold, dry hand around Nilanjana’s neck.

  “That’s enough, Claire.”

  The voice was loud, amplified through a PA system. Fluorescent lights snapped on up and down the hall. There was no hand around Nilanjana’s neck. Claire was leaning against the wall, pouting. Pamela Winchell walked forward, holding her portable amp and microphone. Behind Pamela were two Secret Police officers, wearing balaclavas and capes, like any member of a secret police force would.

  “Arrest her,” Pamela said into the microphone.

  “Wait. Why? I’m just looking for the bathroom.”

  “Aren’t we all, metaphorically, just looking for the bathroom?”

  “I’m hungry,” said Claire.

  “Beat it,” said Pamela. Claire growled and ran away on all fours.

  “Why am I being arrested?” said Nilanjana.

  “We know what’s in that otherworld. We know what your boss’s meddling could bring upon us all. We know what you are up to and we know what that church is up to.”