“The night has been unruly. Where we lay,
Our chimneys were blown down and, as they say,
Lamentings heard i’ th’ air, strange screams of death,
And prophesying with accents terrible
Of dire combustion and confused events
New hatched to the woeful time.”

—Lennox, Macbeth

It didn’t used to be this way.
Yeah, yeah, folks have been saying that as long as there have been folks to say it. But something’s different. It’s not that it never storms in the summertime. It’s not that the heat’s been driving people a little mad any more than it ever did. And it’s not that there’s more crime in the news, it’s that it’s getting… weird.

A man busts out a storefront window, but not with a crowbar. He does it with his forehead. Three kids go missing and their shoes turn up at their front doors, neatly tied and full of chips of bone. Two more go missing but come back, silent and staring. The woman down the street swears there’s something wrong down in the basement, that it’s a lake down there— complete with pond weed and huge, toothy pike.

Something’s up. You gonna find out what it is?

The Night Has Been Unruly