We all float down here

Nuit de Bakélite is the scent of rain lashing the pavement, turning the early evening streets into a labyrinth of slick, stagnant green. Dead leaves, twigs, and other nameless debris bob in the current and clog the gutters, their decomposition adding a cloying sweetness to the already oppressive air, the smell of things both growing and rotting. A late summer downpour that crawls under your skin, leaving you chilled even in the muggy heat. A storm drain gapes open, its maw lined with slime and moss. Down there, in the choking green depths, something shifts. A sound, not quite a giggle, not quite a rustle, echoes up from the blackness, and a voice, smooth as rain on stone, slithers softly. The sweet gurgle of a child, warped and twisted into something monstrous. "We all float down here," it echoes, a promise both terrifying and strangely alluring. "Wouldn't you like to float too?" Nuit de Bakelite is the fetid promise whispered by a monster in the dark, the smell of fear forever lodged in the back of your throat.