Clean, working, fully stocked vending machines in obscure and inaccessible places
Detailed graffiti on surfaces with no obvious spot for the artist to stand, like the underside of a high bridge, or ten metres up a bare wall
Machinery left to rust because there’s no use for it anymore, but it’s in a weird or precarious location and there’s no way to safely remove it
(I’m sure there’s a theme here…)
I’ve been rereading Unknown Armies again recently and there’s a part of me that wants to find occult significance for this sort of nonsense. But then, I kind of enjoy looking for occult significance for a lot of nonsense.
I’m not convinced that there isn’t some occult significance to some of these. The vending machine in particular stems from what’s definitely one of the weirdest experiences I’ve ever had.
First, some context: I don’t know if it’s like this everywhere, but major Canadian cities tend to have a lot of underground infrastructure - particularly in their downtown areas, where train tunnels, parking garages, underground shopping malls, and hotel basements often connect in such a way that you can easily walk for miles without ever seeing sunlight. The interconnections typically aren’t public, or at least not advertised, but a surprising number of them are accessible if poke around; I once followed a maintenance tunnel in a shopping mall parking complex and emerged in the basement of a nearby casino!
Anyway, I was snooping around in the maintenance tunnels below one of the larger local hotels - legitimately, mind you; I was working for the local telecom at the time, trying to track down an errant network cable - when I rounded a bend and noticed that the corridor a few dozen feet ahead of me was brightly illuminated by something. On top of being filthy and difficult to access, the tunnel was also unlit (I’d been navigating by flashlight), so this really stood out.
I couldn’t see any obvious light fixture to account for it - the light seemed to be emerging from an alcove off to the side of the tunnel - so I went to investigate, and discovered… a Coke machine.
Spotlessly clean, fully stocked, and apparently in full working order; the illumination was coming from its interior display lighting.
In a grimy, unlit maintenance corridor twenty feet below ground level.
In retrospect, I’m kind of glad I didn’t have any change on me at the time, because I’d have been sorely tempted to buy something, and who knows how that would have worked out.
This is like those (____) Gothic posts.
Infrastructural gothic should totally be a thing.
(Honestly, working with infrastructure is a bit like living in a video game, at times. I once had to navigate an honest-to-gods jumping puzzle in order to track down a missing router, all hopscotching from beam to beam and dodging hanging bits of machinery inside the pitch-black vault of a false ceiling, with nothing but a thin layer of cardboard veneer between me and a thirty-foot drop to the floor of the ballroom below. And then there was time I installed a giant laser on top of a skyscraper and pointed it at City Hall…)
Can it be story time forever? Please, good sir, tell us more.
Okay, sure. This one isn’t weird or creepy, but it’s definitely in line with the whole “infrastructural gothic” thing, and anybody who’s worked corporate may find the circumstances of it hauntingly familiar.
Another gig for a local telecom (though a different one from the vending machine story): I’d been tasked to track down a phantom server. It was an old database box - probably it’d been running for twenty years at that point - and it was normally administered remotely.
Well, it had finally developed an issue that needed to be addressed in person - and here’s the catch: owing to the company’s high staff turnover (to say that they had a personnel retention problem would be an understatement), there was literally no-one left who’d ever laid eyes on the thing. In fact, nobody knew where it was physically located at all!
I ended up having to work backwards, mapping out the building’s network topology, identifying the nearest router whose physical location was known, and physically tracing the cabling as it snaked through the walls and ceilings in order to find where it ended up.
(Luckily, the phantom server had been set up before wireless networking was commonplace - otherwise the little bastard could have been anywhere.)
Finally I narrowed it down to the exact cable the phantom server was using to communicate with the outside world. Nothing can ever be straightforward, though, so a new problem faced me: the cable disappeared under a baseboard on one side of a wall and simply never came out the other side. That was a big problem: if it ran for any distance inside the wall, I might have had to start tearing out drywall in order to figure out where it went.
Before anybody broke out the sledgehammers, it occurred to me that the dimensions weren’t adding up. In the absence of a floorplan, I had to eyeball some measurements, but it seemed like there was a gap of several feet between one side of the offending wall and the other, about what you’d expect if there was a closet there - but there was no door to be found.
Long story short, it turned out that what had happened is that at some point in the preceding decade, an inattentive (or perhaps simply overzealous) contractor had drywalled over the door to a server closet, without first checking whether there was anything inside. Since the phantom server was remotely administered, and it had never had a problem demanding physical intervention before that point, nobody had noticed that it was now literally sealed inside a wall, all Cask of Amontilladostyle.
My job was simply to find the thing, not to fix it, so I never did find out how the situation was resolved, but I’d loved to have been a fly on the wall at the resulting meetings.
Well, I’ve been asked about the laser like a dozen times, so. Sadly, the story’s less interesting than the one-line summary makes it sound, but here goes.
It was another gig for one of the local telecoms (you may detect a theme), this time to get City Hall up on fibre optics. Most private offices in town had gotten fibre optic network service years ago, and the civic infrastructure was basically playing catch-up; I’m given to understand that getting City Hall on fibre was mostly a political gesture toward keeping with the times, since they didn’t really need the bandwidth, but whatever - it’s not the networking technician’s place to question why!
In principle, it should have been an easy task. There’s a lot of underground dark fibre all over town, left over from the dot-com bubble, and most of it’s gone totally unused since the whole WDM fiasco cratered demand for optical bandwidth - most of the time, it’s a simple matter of finding a dark line that goes vaguely where you need it to and lighting that sucker up. For a variety of reasons, however, there was no dark fibre running to City Hall. Something about being unable to excavate due to the presence of historic statues, I think - I never did get the details.
Basically, some bright folks came up with an idea to bypass the need for physical fibre. One of the local hotels had dark fibre running all the way up to the top floor, and thanks to its elevation (and the fact that this province doesn’t really have topography), there was an unobstructed line of sight between the hotel roof and the roof of City Hall. The plan was to light up the hotel fibre and hook it up to a giant fucking laser on the roof, pointed at a large optical sensor on top of City Hall. A similar laser at City Hall would send data back to a matching receiver atop the hotel, thus establishing an open-air optical link.
i was responsible for the hotel end of the link, so up I went. Now, there’s a couple of things you need to know about this scenario:
Out here on the Canadian prairie, once the wind gets going, there’s nothing to really get in its way. It’s not uncommon for a particularly windy day to sport winds of up to 50 km/h, with gusts approaching 90 km/h. This was, in fact, a particularly windy day.
Fibre optics are greasy. Both for ease of installation and to prevent the hair-thin glass threads from kinking or rubbing once in place, large fibre bundles often have their protective cladding coated - inside and out - with a thick petroleum-based gel. It’s gummy and slippery, and when you cut into a fibre bundle it gets absolutely everywhere.
So there I am, on a high roof with no safety rails, tethered so as not to get blown away, covered head to toe in fibre spooge, attempting to set up this goddamn laser cannon without smudging the lens. Given the distance involved, being even a millimeter off with the aim could cause the beam to miss City Hall entirely, so this was an exceedingly delicate operation; I basically had to clamp adjustable spanners onto the aligning bolts, then very gently tap the wrench handles with a small hammer, carefully checking the calibration sensors after each tap to see whether I was getting further from or closer to dead on.
In the end, it was almost as much fun as the time I got stuck inside a wall because I was the only member of the crew who wasn’t too fat to fit through the maintenance hatch - but that, as they say, is another story.
(For bonus fun, the aforementioned bright folks screwed up their calculations with respect to interference from airborn particles. Their math would have been fine in a typical community, but out here we’re in the middle of sprawling farmland, and the amount of macroscopic crud in the air during planting and harvesting simply wasn’t accounted for in their models. Long story short, the thing doesn’t even work very well half the year!)
The buildings are old and need constant repairs, so something is always under construction. Despite this, you have never seen anyone working on the roped off parts of the buildings. They simply shut down for a month and then re-open, fixed. Odd.
The movement teacher won’t stop talking about “The Work.” There is no clear definition, but it involves The Self and also The Body.
No one sleeps. At all. Not the professors, not the students, not the administrative team, and definitely not the resident company members. Your chances of passing someone in the hall are the same at 4 AM as they are at 2 PM.
Someone says the word “Macbeth” and the room goes dead quiet. The whole floor goes dead quiet. You don’t hear a word spoken in the whole building for the rest of the day. The offender isn’t in class the next day, or the day after that. Eventually, you forget their name.
During midterm week, you dream fitfully about “The Work.” You wake up in a cold sweat, almost certain that you’ll figure out what it is next time.
Your movement final is to “encounter yourself.” You don’t know what this means, but now you keep catching glimpses of yourself in crowds of people. The date of your final draws nearer. You don’t know what you’re going to turn in. Your reflection in the mirror has started lagging a bit. You get the feeling you will be encountering yourself very soon.
“The Work,” says a man on the subway. You clench your hands in your pockets. You have to stay on alert.
The alumni list is long and lofty. The teachers refer to it constantly. “This could be you, right?” You run into one of the alumni on your way downtown. Their eyes are empty. They will not look at you.
You sit down to watch a company show. You come to an hour and a half later during the bows, program still in hand. Everyone else agrees it was a brilliant show. You are not sure what happened to you during it. You may never be sure.
The one thing they never tell you before you visit Jotunheim is the drums. You never hear them. But you feel them.
You haven’t seen a raven in 9 years, but you hear them croaking behind you every day.
You hear drips in the caves. It’s not water, they say. If you hear it stop, you should get to the surface as fast as possible.
“Have some mead!” your host says, and you do. You drink for hours, and the mead horn never empties. Upon reflection, you don’t think it ever was.
You tie a wolf with rope. You tie a wolf with chain. You tie a wolf with thread. Only after do you realize you can’t tie the thread with only one hand.
On a recent hike, I passed a massive overturned tree. Its roots had been ripped from the soil, but not entirely - they twisted and hung, like the bars of a cage, before snaking back into the earth. They made a sort of room, an open space between the tree and the ground, walled in by vines and thick, gnarled roots. As I studied it, a voice in the back of my mind kept repeating, “Things dwell here. I am a trespasser. This is a sacred place.”
-Always bring a knife, never bring a gun. A hunting knife works best.
-If you go alone, you risk yourself. If you go with others, you risk them. Know yourpriorities
-Never check your phone, date, or time. Never contact otherpeople.
-If you get a phone call from Unknown, answer it. They will lead you to places you must see. If its from someone you know, do not answer. That is not who you think it is.
-If you hear voices, dont respond to their questions. If they tell you to get out of the woods, dont. There is no way out but through.
-Never make eye contact with other beings, living or otherwise. They are not to be trusted.
-If you see animal tracks, follow. This may lead you to something interesting. If you see Human tracks, do not follow. This person did not make it out.
-If you hear a low voice asking for help, run.
-If you see a street light with no street, do not let the light from it touch you.
-If you find bones, dont take them. Otherwise They will follow
We are very trustworthy
This is slander
There is no threat in a passing glance and a smile shared between two strangers in the woods, these are normal things. The ones who tell you to fear them are not to be trusted
Do not answer the Unknown caller. They are the one who truly must not be trusted.
The only way to the place you’re going is through a dark passageway. It’s a sunny day, but you can’t see to the other side. Everyone else keeps walking past the passageway as if they don’t see it.
The Northern line isn’t running above Camden Town. The buses have stopped going that way too. People start referring to North London like it’s Manchester. “That’s just how things are up North,” they say. “My sister moved up there but I haven’t heard from her in months.”
It’s been raining for days. It is always raining. Your flat is damp, condensation collecting on the insides of the windows. The walls are weeping. Your feet are wet. You will never be dry or warm again.
A pop up shop opens on Portobello Road. It sells herbs and homeopathic remedies one week, crystals and amulets the next. The third week, it’s stocked with rabbit’s feet and animal skulls, lizard skins and strange feathered things. People can’t get enough. The week after that, the store is gone.
You roll your eyes at a group of tourists taking a Jack the Ripper walking tour: a dozen of them winding through the alleys and pubs, following a guide holding an umbrella above his head. You see the same group again later, and there are only ten of them now. The guide looks straight at you. You look away.
There’s a red telephone box on every corner. The tourists like to take pictures inside, outside, on top of them. Every night, after midnight, all the telephones begin to ring. Your mother told you never to answer. You cross the street to avoid the sound, pulling your scarf tighter around your throat as you scurry on.
It’s summer and the ponds in Hampstead Heath are spreading. The grass is growing higher, up to a man’s chest. It’s all marshland now, all the paths and bridges swallowed up by rising water and vegetation. That’s just how things are now, up North.
You run down the steps into Piccadilly Circus and weave through the crowd to the ticket barrier. You touch your Oyster card to the reader and it beeps disapprovingly. The reader flashes the message: Seek Assistance. You try again and get the same message. You’re irritated, you’re in a hurry. You look around for a ticket agent, but you don’t see anyone. The booths are shuttered. The station is empty. The lights are flickering. There is no one here to assist you.
you open your resume in microsoft word. your qualifications have been replaced with the words “NEVER ENOUGH.” the cursor winks.
the website asks you to fill in your basic information. the website asks you for your resume and cover letter. the website asks you to answer additional questions. the website asks you to fill out an applicant questionnaire. the website asks you to sacrifice your family. you click “submit” with bloody hands.
everyone is hiring. no one is hiring. the signs disappear when you look at them too closely, but you can see them in distant shop windows. only a few blocks more and you will be safe.
you attend a job fair hiring individuals in your field and are offered several jobs on the spot. your dream-self accepts the position and shakes the manager’s hand as you awaken in your bed. there is still a hand in yours.
“are you a student?” yes. “are you between the ages of 18-24?” yes. “are you human?” you were. you don’t know now.
the hiring manager has listed their contact information. phone number: blank. email: blank. sacrifice: three rabbits. you stop by the pet store on your way home.
a cacophony of voices scream wordlessly into the void. these are your cover letters. these are your only hope.
you are waiting for your interview. you watch as other applicants go into the office. none of them come out.
every hampton inn seems the same. every hampton inn is the same. you forget your bag in your room in cleveland and retrieve it in georgia. you don’t remember packing a severed head.
please proceed to the gate of the damned. proceed to the gate of the damned to board flight 7734. flight 7734 is now boarding. this is your last call for boarding on flight 7734. this is your last chance.
you are staying in a cottage in key west. there are large dark shapes in the water. “it’s just the manatees,” the locals tell you. screams come from the water’s edge. “it’s just the manatees.” the water is red. “it’s just the manatees.”
you have never seen a manatee. you are thankful.
you visited toronto once. you stood on the glass floor in the cn tower, 1,122 ft above the ground. (they told you not to look down. you should have listened.)
disneyland is the happiest place on earth. you have never smiled this much in your life. you have never had this many teeth.
turn left in three kilometres. turn right in three kilometres. the road will cease to exist in three kilometres.
recalculating. recalculating. recalculating.
your best friend used to live in vancouver. vancouver still lives in them.
you visit the museum of modern art. the paintings are screaming. the walls are screaming. the patrons are screaming. black ichor runs out of the frames. you turn to the museum staff for help, but they are screaming too. the ichor is up to your neck.
new york city is the best city you have ever visited. you heart nyc. you heart nyc. you heart nyc.
you have seen the sphinx. the sphinx has seen you. it remembers.
there is sand in a bottle in your room from the valley of the kings. no matter where you look, it is in the corner of your eye. you can hear the pharaohs talking in the night. soon we will be free.
years later, you are going through your travel journals. you find your entry for detroit: don’t walk on woodward. don’t walk on woodward. don’t walk on woodward. don’t walk on woodward.
you think you may have walked on woodward. you think you may never have been to detroit. (the ink smudges beneath your fingers. there is blood on the corner of the page.)
