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If a tree falls in the forest, and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? Of course it makes a sound. It makes a horrible, rending, splintering sound, a wet snap like breaking bone, like cartilage stretched to breaking. The question you should be asking is, what exactly made that tree fall? What is that thing? How big is it? Has it seen you? Oh god, it's seen you. Stay still. Pretend that you are not there. You did not hear a tree fall; you were not around to hear it. Hold your breath. Close your eyes. Pretend. Believe. Welcome to Beacon Hills.
[Intro music]
It's another beautiful night here in Beacon County, and you're listening to Full Moon Radio, from Beacon Hills Community Media. We're here to bring you the latest news, traffic information, and body count updates, so let's get right to it.
The horrible string of murders which have plagued our fair city have yet to end. Last night, Sheriff's Deputy Tara Grahame was found dead outside Beacon Hills High School. And the school has suffered yet another loss this afternoon, as my sources tell me that history teacher Oliver Westover has disappeared from his classroom under suspicious circumstances. Is he the next victim of Beacon Hills' resident strangler? And will chemistry teacher Adrian Harris ever be found? This makes six incidents of death and disappearance among the school's students and faculty in recent months, and many more in the last year, not to mention all the other strange goings-on. Earlier this school year, as you may recall, an entire flock of birds flew a kamikaze mission straight through the windows of Ms. Blake's English classroom. Then there was the copious bloodspatter discovered in the school boiler room by Mr. Hollywell. The Sheriff's department still has no leads on that particular mystery, but they also tell me that massive pools of blood are not, just on their own, actually a crime.
"Maybe somebody just spilled it?" they suggested, when prompted for a statement. "You know, like sometimes you're just walking along, carrying a cup of deliciously fresh coffee, and you just trip for whatever reason, and the coffee goes everywhere? Maybe it was like that. But with blood."
Now, it's been awhile since I myself was a student at good old BHHS, and things have certainly changed since my day... why, we only had three our four gruesome, unexplained student murders per school year, on average. But let's be honest: it's just not that great a school. Kids have enough problems these days, what with homework, societal pressures, cyberbullying, and the strange, hooded figures who sometimes appear outside their windows at night, attempting to steal them from their beds. I'm just saying, students and parents of Beacon Hills High, maybe you ought to consider home schooling.
Speaking of the horrible murders of members of the school faculty, student body, and staff, let's move on to the community calendar. First up, a reminder that tonight in the high school auditorium, there will be a concert in remembrance of the students and teachers who have lost their lives this year. All things considered, they might have to end up making this a quarterly event, just to keep up. If you decide to attend, please be aware that a future memorial concert may end up being held in your honor.
Anita, the owner of that New Age magic shop on Oakwood Road, is offering on a free workshop this weekend to any interested members of the community. The topic will be "Protective Wards, Magical Barriers, And You." Anita is strongly suggesting that everyone in town attend, for your own good. The class will be held this Saturday in the back room of her shop, where she also offers Tarot card and palm readings, and is occasionally possessed by the spirits of the dead. And next Saturday, get out your knitting needles and get ready for some serious fun, because Anita's planning to teach an introductory knitting class, free to local residents! Bring your yarn and needles with you, and she'll teach you how to create your own, beautiful, potholder!
There will be a town council meeting next Thursday at City Hall. On the agenda: a proposed increase in fees for the parking meters along Center Street, and the allocation of emergency funds to assist the school board in hiring new teachers to replace all the missing and murdered ones. There will also be a presentation by wildlife specialist Doctor Samantha Cody, from Humboldt State University, on why exactly she believes that Beacon Hills' rash of animal attacks are in fact completely impossible, and therefore are nothing to worry about. Well, that's a relief. Also, I'm sure we can expect Old Man Huxley to deliver his usual carefully timed three-minute speech on these kids today and their music and their strange occult rituals. It's always a crowd-pleaser.
That's this week's community calendar; and now, a message from our sponsor.
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You are cold. You are so, so very cold. All around you is a deep, blue-tinged darkness; you are in the water, and there is no way out. You can hardly feel your legs, but you know that they are kicking, frantically, uncoordinated, trying to push you toward the surface and air but there is no air. There is only a solid sheet of ice above you, clear as glass but impervious to the blows of your fists as you hammer against it, again and again, your hands bleeding clouds of red into the water, your desperately held breath bubbling from between your lips with the force of your exertion. The ice does not crack, or shudder, or acknowledge that you are there. You do not understand how you have come to be in this lake, beneath the ice, but you understand that you are going to die.
There is a stranger on the other side of the ice, out in the air, breathing clouds of frost. It is the most beautiful stranger you have ever seen, and they are bending to see you, mouthing words you cannot hear, expression pained and frantic. Your heart shudders in your chest from the fear, the lack of oxygen, the nearness of that stranger's face to your own and also the impossible distance between you. There is nothing you want more, in this moment you are dying, than to reach through the ice and touch that face, to kiss those lips, but you can't. You are drowning, and also your breath is not very fresh.
You can't hold off any longer. You breathe in. The water is so very, very cold, and it tingles in your mouth, your throat, your lungs. You choke on it, but it is also refreshing, like ice and mountaintops, such a powerful cooling sensation, exactly like an crisp, cool Icebreakers mint. Icebreakers: The only mints with flavor crystals, so you can see the great taste! You'll feel it, too. In your lungs. And you will remember what it is like to drown, in the winter.
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Tonight, dear listeners, I'd like to talk to you about the past. You may feel haunted by yours, but of course, we all feel that way sometimes. I mean that metaphorically speaking, although some of you are probably haunted literally, the shades of those you've wronged trailing after you in death, waiting patiently for their slow revenge. I can't help with that; I'm talking more about being haunted by things you've done in the past, things you can't change, chances you wish you'd taken.
My past came to visit me, recently, in the form of Derek Hale. You remember Derek Hale, don't you, listeners? Well, even if you're a recent transplant to our little town, you probably saw his wanted posters plastered all over the county not too long ago, when he was considered a murder suspect. And you may remember that his sister was the first of the many animal attacks that have plagued our county recently, or that practically his entire family burned to death in a horrible fire years ago. I certainly remember Derek Hale. We were in the same graduating class at Beacon Hills High, and I think it's safe to say that I'm not the only one who remembers the way he looked in a pair of basketball shorts. Yes, I'm admitting it, Beacon Hills: I had a huge, heart-breaking crush on Derek Hale. Who wouldn't? But it's not like I ever said anything about it.
Well, I got another chance last week, when I just happened to run into him. He looks good these days, even without the basketball shorts, what with his chiseled jaw and spectacular physique and very manly facial hair. He was also covered in blood, limping heavily, and appeared to be suffering from a major head trauma of some kind.
I ran into him just down the road from the high school, where we just happened to both be waiting to cross the street at the same intersection. We just stood there in silence for a moment, and I thought, this is my chance. I'm a grown-up now, I'm successful, I'm no longer a member of the Beacon Hills High Amateur Arborist Society. There's no reason I should feel intimidated about talking to Derek Hale. He's just a person like you and me, no matter how dreamy and intensely multi-colored his beautiful hazel eyes are. He gets up in the morning and puts on his incredibly tight jeans one leg at a time.
So I said, "Hey, Derek."
He totally didn't remember me. Can you believe that? I mean I know we weren't exactly besties or anything, but we were lab partners in bio for like an entire semester. I always felt like once you'd dissected a frog with somebody, you formed a certain bond.
Anyway, he didn't say anything, just squinted at me, but he had a lot of blood in his eyes, I guess. I thought maybe he needed immediate hospitalization, but I didn't want to pry, so I just said, really casual-like, "You need an ambulance or something? Because I could call one. I've got a really strong signal on my phone. Got the 4G upgrade."
He frowned, and I thought he wasn't going to say anything at all, but then he pointed toward the school and said, "No, it's okay, I have to... I've got a thing. I'll be fine."
Then the light changed, and we both crossed the street, and it was kind of awkward because we were pretty much done talking, but still walking in the same direction? Don't you hate that? Anyway, he staggered off toward the school parking lot and I went on my way, thinking about how unfair it is that anybody's hair can look that good when it's all spiked up with blood and—
Hold on, this just in. Intern Harley, who as you know has been working here at the station as part of a work-study project with the Beacon Hills High A/V Club, has just sent me a text from the high school auditorium, where she's attending the memorial concert. Harley reports that the concert's musical director has selected a program for the evening consisting of some kind of ominous chanting, like something out of The Omen. Harley tells me that the orchestra almost appears to be possessed, and all I have to say is that they should've taken Anita's free workshop on spiritual possessions last summer. Possession is no laughing matter, listeners; it affects not just you, but the people who love you most, and everyone around you. Like wearing a seatbelt, warding yourself against spiritual possession is just common sense.
I'm going to attempt to get Harley on the phone now, and see what I can discover about the goings-on at the memorial concert; in the meantime, I bring you the weather:
[THE WEATHER: "Howling at the Moon," shananigram]
Listeners, I have terrible news. I've just spoken to Intern Harley at the Beacon Hills High memorial concert; I was able to hear a segment of the evening's musical tribute before it was suddenly cut off with a wet splatter and the sound of screams, and let me tell you, it was terrible. That sort of ritual chanting is frankly just inappropriate for high school aged children, and there was a tenor in there somewhere who was horribly off-key. Also, I'm told that Beacon Hills High has lost yet another teacher, and in fact has now lost its entire music department, as the school's only remaining music teacher has now suffered a bloody, public death by piano in front of a horrified crowd of concert-goers. Now, I don't want to be crass, but if what I heard was the level of musical excellence that the school's faculty were striving for, then maybe it's for the best.
Some of the blame for this fiasco probably rests on the shoulders of English teacher Jennifer Blake, who organized this concert, despite being the newest member of the faculty and not actually really knowing any of the deceased students or teachers. I suppose she may have been too distracted to put together a truly excellent musical program, because I've also received reports that she attempted to strangle a student to death during the concert tonight, and may indeed herself be the murderous strangler the police have been searching for. I'm sure every teacher has felt that impulse at one time or another, Miss Blake, but I can assure you that here in Beacon Hills we do not find ritual sacrifice of students to be appropriate behavior. I'm sure you've heard about that one time that Coach Finstock very nearly murdered that kid Greenberg, but that was Greenberg. There were extenuating circumstances. There are always extenuating circumstances with Greenberg. Also, this is Coach Finstock we're talking about here. There is no way to fathom the mind-boggling complexity of Coach Finstock, and I don't recommend trying.
We'll bring you further reports on this story as things continue to develop.
Finally this evening, the National Weather Service is reporting a severe thunderstorm warning, with power outages in several areas throughout the county and Hill Valley already reporting flooding. So if you're driving home from the high school this evening, shaken and traumatized by witnessing a woman's horrible death and a frankly shameful recital, remember to drive slowly, exercise caution, and should you see any sights that you cannot explain, tell yourself that it was only a trick of the light, or a shadow in the darkness. Remember that you have nothing to fear but fear itself, and all of the malevolent forces that may at this very moment be trying to put an end to your life. Good night, Beacon Hills. Good night.
Full Moon Radio is an homage to both MTV's Teen Wolf, and Welcome to Night Vale by Commonplace Books. It is written and created by tumblr user agentotter, and read and produced by tumblr user halffizzbin. Background music is borrowed from Disparition, and may be downloaded at disparition.info. Additional music credits to Dead Man's Bones and Dino Meneghin. The weather tonight was "Howling at the Moon" by shananigram. To find out more, and shower them with creepily effusive praise, visit soundcloud.com/shananigram, or follow them on Facebook and Twitter. Today's proverb: The eyes are the windows to the soul, the welcome mats to the mind, and the sliding doors to Peter Hale's silliest monologues.