There is something ungodly about these night wire jobs. You sit up here on the top floor of a skyscraper and listen in to the whispers of a civilization. New York, London, Calcutta, Bombay, Singapore,

there your next-door neighbors after the streetlights go dim and the world has gone to sleep

Alone in the quiet hours between two and four the receiving operators doze over their sounders and the news comes in. Fires and disasters and suicides. Murders, crowds, catastrophes. Sometimes an earthquake with a casualty list as long as your arm.

The nightwire man takes it down, almost in his sleep,

picking it off on his typewriter with one finger.

Once in a long time you prick up your ears and listen. You've heard of

someone you knew in Singapore, Halifax, or Paris long ago. Maybe they've been

promoted, but more probably they've been murdered or drowned.

Perhaps they just decided to quit and took some bizarre way out,

made it interesting enough to get in the news.

But that doesn't happen often. Most of the time you sit and doze and tap, tap on your typewriter and wish you were home in bed. Sometimes though, queer things happen. One did the other night, and I haven't

got over it yet. I wish I could. I could.

Those were the first few paragraphs of the Night Wire by H.F. Arnold.

Many say the most popular weird tale story of all time.

And we will be transmitting our thoughts about it to you here on the H.P. Lovecraft

literary podcast. I'm Chad Fyfer.

And I'm Chris Laki. We're at H.Podraft.com and Patreon and happy 2019.

How did that happen so fast? We're in the future. I know. I'm off to retire some

replicants. It's the time to do it. 2019.

All replicates must be put down.

Well, not all of them, just the nexus six.

Yeah, if they're on earth,

...